


The Piano Boy

by zombiesam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel is a Novak (Supernatural), High School, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by La La Land (2016), M/M, Minor Character Death, Musician Castiel (Supernatural), Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Young Castiel/Young Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, very very loosely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiesam/pseuds/zombiesam
Summary: When the Winchesters move next door to a family shrouded in darkness, the boy with a musical gift and haunting secrets will capture Dean's interest, giving the lonely boy the first real friend he's had in a long, long time. Soon and sure as the seasons change, he will capture Dean's heart, too.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester, Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began a fic VERY similar to this with an identical title years ago. Originally, it was a Sam/Lucifer fic. But with Supernatural finally ending and destiel capturing my heart, making this a Dean/Cas story feels more appropriate.
> 
> Please be mindful of the tags. While this fic will never get TOO explicit, the references and themes are. It's rated mature because of what is discussed and I try not to shy away from that. That being said, I do not believe in using real depictions of suffering for the sake of shock value, and I will try my hardest not to do so in this fic.

"And the history books forgot about us

And the Bible didn't mention us

And the Bible didn't mention us,

Not even once."

* * *

**Chapter 1  
** **August 1976**

\--

In the downpour coating the hazy earth in a layer of mist, Castiel Novak watches the new residents unload their moving boxes out of the truck and through the door of the quiet house. The two boys, one older than the other by at least three or four years, hurry back and forth between their house and the truck with their father, trying to escape the rain. Perched atop a high tree, Castiel remains almost entirely unaffected by the chilly summer rain. The translucent clouds provide comfort - a cool blanket guarding his little hideaway against the rest of the world.

His figure remains shrouded by the wet leaves, though the tree from where he watches the family is only several yards away from the house the new family would make their home. Two boys, the older just about his age, and a father. No mother in sight. The older brother, a gruff, broad-shouldered boy even at his young age, kicks a puddle of water at his younger brother's already-soaked clothes. The younger boy shoves him angrily, causing the older boy to laugh. Even Castiel laughs a little at the banter.

Transfixed by the newcomers, Castiel tries to gather as much information as he can about his new neighbors. The boys seem to get along well. Their father seems strict, quick to bark out orders. The boys listen, rushing quickly to follow his sharp orders. Castiel watches, silent and observing, from his place atop the low-hanging tree.

He wonders if they'd be kind. Already envious of how well the family seems to get along with one another, Castiel leans forward in the tree, trying to pick up on their voices through the sound of the heavy rain. Instinctively, his hand closes around the small, silver music-note pendant hanging loosely around his neck.

"Dean. Help your brother with the chairs," the boys' father barks. Castiel wipes away a trickle of water down his nose. He grabs the branch beside him in a tight grip, craning his neck to hear more. But, in the pouring rain that shows no sign of letting up, the branches are wet and terribly slippery. His grip slackers, and soon, his hand slides completely off the wet bark. His body tilts forward as he uselessly grasps for purchase. In a matter of seconds, he hits the wet ground with a choked cry, landing on his forearms and stomach. Pain shoots up his body, leaving him briefly immobile as his vision swims.

"Whoa!" a voice calls out. "Are you alright, man?"

Mortified, Castiel groans as he slowly comes back to his senses. He forces his aching limbs to move and scrambles to his feet like a startled cat. In his haste to get up, he slips on the wet grass, nearly losing his balance for the second time. A hand catches his arm. He blinks as he finds himself staring into the wide eyes of the older boy; Dean. A ways back, his younger brother and father watch curiously.

"You okay?" Dean asks. Castiel stammers for an answer. He takes in the sight of his new neighbor up close; wide green eyes. A curious quirk of an eyebrow. Panicked, Castiel remains utterly silent before quickly wrenching his arm from Dean's grasp. He turns and bolts for his house, his feet flying out behind him as they thud against the soaked ground. 

Dean gapes as he watches the boy run.

"What's his problem?" his younger brother asks. Dean shrugs.

"Dunno. That was weird. I think he fell out of that tree…"

He watches the boy fly inside the house next door and slam it shut. On the grass just at the base of the tree, something glistening catches his eye. Dean walks over and plucks off the muddy ground, examining it closely. A small, sterling silver music pendant hangs on a silver chain, glistening in the rain. It must have belonged to the boy.

“I think this was his,” Dean points out. The clasp is broken, likely damaged from the fall. His younger brother and their father peer at it curiously.

“Well, you’ll have to give it back to him tomorrow,” his dad points out. "Not now, though. We need to get the rest of this inside, Let’s go - I don’t want you two catching more of a chill than you already have. We’ve still got four more boxes to unload.”

Groaning, the boys hurry off to help their father unload the rest of the old boxes. Dean carefully pockets the necklace in his jacket where he knows he won’t forget it tomorrow. The idea of confronting the odd boy again makes him grimace, but he supposes it’s unavoidable. They’re neighbors, and the strange boy in the tree appeared to be his age. He should be lucky to have boys his age in the neighborhood at all.

By night time, Dean, Sam, and John Winchester manage to get the last of the wet boxes safely inside their new home. They’d begin unpacking in the morning. The small, ranch-style home is the pinnacle of the American Dream; or, at least, that’s what their father had told them. Three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a small dining area made the house a quaint, small place to live amongst the rows of houses that echoed it’s bland, American charm. White picket fences. A quiet street. A safe town (just as long as you didn’t go too far down Elk Street, where the houses began to crumble and the bars attracted all the wrong attention.)

A boring town. A boring life. At the age of sixteen, Dean Winchester could hardly call it _ideal_ , no matter how much he was told otherwise. Sam had been silent on the matter. They had a roof over their heads; that’s all that mattered.

It’s the pinnacle of the American Dream without the nuclear family to call it a proper home. With their mom no longer in the picture, it would just be the three of them.

“Your mom would’ve loved this place,” their father murmurs, giving the small dining room a brief look-over. Dean nods uncomfortably. Sam doesn’t answer at all.

Instead, Sam announces that he's going to bed. Dean visibly winces; he can all but taste the argument in the air before it hits. The rubber-band tension strung tight as a sueter that never seems to ease between their father and the younger brother.

"You're gonna stay and help unpack," their father says. Sam, always one for steely logic, passes their father a sharp glare.

"I'm tired," he snaps. He doesn't say another word. He marches off to bed, taking the stairs two at a time. Their father yells, and stubborn as a bull, Sam doesn't listen. He'd be grounded, but right now, Dean is too tired to care about fighting on the first night of their new home.

Exhausted and freezing from the rain, Dean doesn’t object when their father sends him off to bed after unpacking the bed blankets they'd picked up from a pawn shop near the end of town. He throws his sheets onto the single bed, sitting in the far corner of the room by the small window where he could see the neighbor's house, murky and bright in the rain.

The fire had taken everything from them; their home. Most of their possessions. Their mother. Jumping from apartment to apartment, from hotel to hotel when their father couldn't hold down a job. And now they've ended up here: Lawrence, Kansas. The single most boring town on Planet Earth. Dean tries to relax as he pulls the covers up to his chin.

This place is going to be their home. Home, home, home. Dean isn’t sure when it’s supposed to feel like home. But he can only hope it’ll be soon as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Sam is standing over Dean when he blinks awake the next day. With a jolt, Dean glares at him, kicking at him through the blankets, which Sam ignores. The clock reads 11:30 a.m. — Dean had slept in late. It takes a moment to familiarize himself with the strange, new surroundings.

“Are you gonna give that necklace back to that kid, or what?” Sam asks. Rolling his eyes, Dean drags himself out of bed, glaring at Sam before hastily pulling on a pair of clothes. Taking the necklace from his bedside table, Dean weighs it in his hand. It’s the kind of necklace a woman would wear - not a young, teenage boy.

"I guess so. You gonna start more fights with dad that I'll have to break up?"

"I didn't start a fight. I was tired. I couldn't even see straight. Dad would have made us unpack everything and you know it."

Dean sighs. He doesn't bother pushing - not now. Not when he just woke up. "You really think we're gonna stay here? When's the last time we stayed anywhere for longer than six months?"

Sam shrugs, looking away from Dean. "I dunno. I kinda like it here. I wanna stay."

"Why? It's stuffy."

"Dean, we get our own bathroom. That's like, insane. And with dad’s friend selling him the new car garage, we’ll actually have money for once.”

Dean shrugs as he quickly pulls on a pair of faded jeans and a black t-shirt. He nabs his jacket, pushing his fingers through his hair with a quick glance in the mirror."

"Whatever. I'm not betting on it though."

If there was one, good thing about this apple pie life, it's that he finally has a space for his record player. Dean eagerly takes out the player, unloading it straight to their room before anything else. His prized stacks of records would rest against the blank wall; Elvis, Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, Supertramp, and even The Beatles all made it into Dean’s collection.

“You gonna get rid of any of those anytime soon?” their father grumbles as Dean carries up his fourth armful of records. Dean sighs, ducking his head as he mumbles a quick _‘I don’t know.’_ He wouldn’t get rid of these for anything, especially now that he actually has space to display them. In his room, he sets the stack down beside the others as he pulls at the silver necklace in his pocket again to show it to Sam.

“I don’t even know if it’s actually his,” Dean points out. “I just found it on the ground after he fell. And anyway, this is a girl’s necklace, isn’t it?”

Sam shrugs, giving it a long look. “I guess. You should still check, though. It looks kinda fancy.”

Dean winces. Why did his first meeting with their neighbors have to be some weirdo kid who hides in trees in the pouring rain? His dismay for the small town only grew at the fact that this was what he had to look forward to in a neighbor.

“Yeah, fancy necklace for some weirdo who was staring at us from a freakin’ tree,” Dean grumbles. Sam shrugs.

“Dunno. You should go find out.”

“What are you gonna do all day?”

Sam shrugs again, not looking at Dean. He sits cross-legged on the floor as he begins unloading his clothes from his suitcase to fold them.

“I dunno. I was gonna go walk up to the school. See what it looks like.”

“Ugh, you’re thinking about school already?” Dean groans. “It’s a freaking Saturday.” 

“Yeah, well, we start on Monday, Dean,” Sam points out with a roll of his eyes. “It’s not like we can just avoid it.”

Dean sighs and folds his arms. He feels bad - he knows Sam is nervous to start. At thirteen years old, the kid takes school way more seriously than he ever has, and it never exactly made his younger brother popular with the other kids. Sam had come home on more than one occasion with a black eye when they were still changing schools every few months. Scrawny and timid, he was a popular target for bullies.

“You could come and visit our weirdo neighbor with me,” Dean suggests. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no thanks.”

Dean sighs. Despite his neighbor's odd behavior, he knows that this is his best shot at making a friend his age. He can’t remember the last time he actually had a friend that he knew for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He wouldn’t admit it, especially not to Sam, but it was his own loneliness driving him towards any opportunity for companionship. He could always ditch the kid if he proved to be as weird as he seemed.

“Alright, whatever. You do you. I’ll be back.”

Without another word, Dean strides out the door and out of the house, yelling to his dad that he was going next door. 

It’s chilly for late August. Dean shoves his hands into his ratty jacket as he makes his way across the lawn to the strange boy’s home. Nerves, hesitation, and a tinge of excitement make him jittery as he approaches the large, wooden door. He knocks on the door three times, stepping back as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. An older boy answers, likely no younger than eighteen or nineteen. He raises an eyebrow at the young Winchester. A cigarette hangs off his lip.

“Hi there. Are you the new family next door?” he asks. He leans against the door frame. His bright, blue eyes pierce right through Dean’s, making him wince uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles. “Um — I think your brother dropped this the other day. I wanted to, uh, give it back.”

He grabs the necklace from his pocket, holding it out for the older boy to see. He raises a slow, cautious eyebrow. Regarding Dean with little trust in his eyes as he reaches out to take it from Dean’s hand. He examines it for a moment with a shake of his head.

“God...Castiel was tearing up the whole house looking for that old thing. Guess he’ll be happy you found it. What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“Mmh. I’m Michael. I’m Castiel’s older brother.”

He motions for Dean to follow him inside the house, and Dean quickly hurries after him. Much like his own, the house is quaint. Comfortable, yet small. Vaguely suffocating. Dean eyes the walls as Michael leads him through the kitchen and into the living room where several, ratty blue couches surround an antennae TV. Several spots on the walls have been filled in with drywall that was still unpainted, and the couch cushions are ripped in several places. The corner of the television is cracked. 

But, as Dean follows Michael through the house, the sound of an out-of-tune piano floats through the house from upstairs, instantly capturing Dean’s attention. Dean listens intently, recognizing the song; an Elvis song from one of his records. The smooth, steady melody drifts through the living room, played with the pace and rhythm of a seasoned musician. Despite the instrument being so old and out of tune, the notes are played with careful precision, delicately flowing from one chord into the next. It's as though the instrument's lack of tune is part of the song itself; the lack of sharp tonality giving the song a haunted, unearthly sort of beauty that stuns Dean where he stands. The song is undeniably an Elvis song, and yet entirely unique in the way the piano’s melody ebbs and flows. Dean can hear the words sung as though the King himself were upstairs, singing right along. He doesn't even realize that he's smiling as he begins humming under his breath.

_“And I love you so_

_That people ask me how_

_How I've lived 'til now…”_

But the daydream ends when Michael groans impatiently, startling Dean back to rigid clarity. Dean shuffles where he stands, feeling self-conscious.

“And there he goes," Michael growls. "This kid rages through the damn house, turning over cushions, screaming at me and Gabriel about his missing necklace before hiding away to bang on that old thing. Castiel!”

The music falters for a moment, before continuing to waft softly through the house. Dean listens intently, shivering at the way the song seems to be played with such care on such an old, dingy instrument. He's never heard anything like it - the care, the delicate way the notes rise and fall, as though using the piano's old, broken sound to enhance, rather than hinder, the gentle melody. He barely hears when Michael groans again, the older brother's expression darkening in irritation.

“ _Castiel!_ Get down here. Your new neighbor found your damn necklace. Maybe stop wearing it out in the rain for once.”

The piano stops abruptly. Frantic footsteps clamor upstairs before the small figure of the boy appears at the top of the steps. Dean shifts where he stands, keeping his hands shoved into his pocket as the boy from yesterday — Castiel — races down the stairs. He stops short when he nearly crashes right into Dean.

“You found this?!” he demands. Much like his brother, Castiel has incredibly piercing blue eyes. They stare straight through Dean, making his skin feel tightly pulled over his bones. Short stature and a stiff, steely posture make the boy seem ready to pop a loose spring as his eyes dart to the locket in Michael’s hand. His short, inky black hair sticks up from an attempt to comb it back.

“Yeah,” Dean says quickly. “Uh...it was at the base of the tree. I guess it came off when you, uh...fell. The clasp is broken, though. Sorry."

He grabs it from Michael, who gives him a hard shove. With the older brother being much bigger — and stronger — Castiel stumbles back, tripping over the bottom step and landing on the second step hard on his rear end.

“Watch your hands around me!” he barks. Castiel whimpers, but glares at him weakly as he holds the broken necklace close to his chest. Stiffening, Dean nearly runs to help the boy up — but the dark glare from his older brother roots him to the spot.

“Go make yourself useful and get the hell outside. I can’t stand hearing that out-of-tune piece of crap anymore than dad can.”

“Michael — “

“I said _go_. Before dad gets home and makes you.”

Castiel watches Dean with heavy eyes as Michael lights his cigarette.

“Sorry, Dean," Michael grumbles over his cigarette. He jams a finger in Castiel's direction. "This one likes to act like he owns the place. Feel free to rough him up if he starts running his mouth again. Now get outside before I take a sledgehammer to that piece of out-of-tune crap. Go be useful and show the new kid around the town or something.”

Wordlessly, Castiel glares at his brother, before pushing past him. Dean stumbles awkwardly to follow him, giving a half-hearted wave to Michael before the two finally stumble out outside. Of all things he expected when returning the boy’s necklace, this certainly hadn’t been one of them. Feeling on-edge, Dean feels a twist of pity in his gut for the boy as he quickly follows him up the driveway and out onto the sidewalk.

“Sorry about him,” Castiel grumbles once they’ve finally put distance between themselves and the house. His cheeks are flushed as they hurry down the sidewalk, no real direction; just an urgent need to get away. 

“It’s cool,” Dean assures him, a little shaken. He glances behind his shoulder. He’s grateful to be away from that guy, though he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing now. He’d feel bad just leaving Castiel out here and going home.

“Brothers, right? They're real jerks,” Dean continues, trying to lighten the mood a little. “I’ve got one at home, too.”

“Michael is the worst. Your brother can’t be worse than him.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s a whiny nerd. But I watch out for him. He’s younger than me, though.”

Castiel nods, but his gaze is fixated on the necklace in his palms. He cradles it in his hands like it’s a piece of valuable treasure, a diamond lost to his touch. It glimmers in the sunlight peeking through the airy clouds. Since they had stepped outside, Castiel hadn’t stopped looking at it. His black hair, almost too long, falls over his forehead and Castiel absently reaches up to brush is aside.

“Sorry I couldn’t fix it,” Dean murmurs. God, this kid is weird, even if Dean feels a little bad for him. “But I really liked hearing the piano! I love Elvis, he’s so cool!”

Castiel shrugs. He seems to barely hear Dean. Finally, he tucks the necklace into his jacket pocket, keeping his hand placed over it once it is hidden away.

“I like him, too. He’s easy to pick up on the piano. Simple chords, easy to follow just by listening to the vinyl once or twice."

Dean gapes at him, stunned.

“Dude, you sounded like an expert freaking piano player. There’s no way you played that well just by listening to the song a few times.”

Castiel shrugs again. Dean just stares. He’s never met anybody who could play that well just from listening to the music by ear.

“What other songs can you play?” he demands, a little suddenly. Castiel seems startled by Dean’s sudden, rapt interest. Dean hardly notices.

“'Cause, like, I’ve never heard anyone play Elvis on the piano before.”

“I know some music by The Beatles,” Castiel says softly. A blush spreads across his pale, thin cheeks. He glances up at Dean, watching him with curious eyes before speaking again.

“And some classical music. I tend to try and play whatever I hear. Once I hear it...it's in my head." Castiel taps his forehead for emphasis.

Dean immediately begins launching into his favorite Beatles records, naming at least ten off the top of his head as Castiel nods along in genuine interest. The whole time, he keeps a tight grip on the necklace, as though terrified to lose it again. Dean does most of the talking as they walk together, with Castiel nodding in agreement when Dean names a song that he particularly likes, or confirming whether or not he is able to play a song that Dean likes. As they talk, the two hardly even realize they had walked all the way down the road. Slowly, the town’s atmosphere begins to take a seedy undertone; cracks begin appearing more frequently on the sidewalk, the buildings appeared more run-down. Several men sitting on the curb drinking from paper bags raised their heads as the two young boys walked past. Quickly, Castiel extends a stiff arm in front of Dean, who stops dead in his tracks.

“Dean, we shouldn’t be on this side of town.”

“Oh. Oh, right, uh…”

The two stop where they had been walking, looking around nervously. There’s a thrill in Dean’s eye; the opportunity to explore. To be in danger. To get into places he shouldn’t be. To solve a mystery, even. But Castiel’s arm holds him in place. The kid is scrawny; Dean could easily push past him. But the authority Castiel commands with the simple gesture holds Dean rooted in place better than any muscled strength could.

“Micahel doesn’t let me on this side of town,” Castiel says lowly. “We should go back.”

Dean reluctantly agrees. Without another word, they turn, scurrying back the way they came without looking behind them. After five minutes of speed-walking, the boys slow their pace again.

“I enjoyed talking with you so much, I lost track of where we were going,” Castiel says seriously.

The complete, deadpan honestly from the other boy almost makes Dean stop in his tracks again. He had known this kid for all of an hour at best, if even that. He suddenly doesn’t know what to say. 

“I, uh...I liked talking with you too,” he spits out. He feels his cheeks grow red. Castiel peers at him curiously.

“You found that difficult to say. Did you not mean it honestly?”

Dean stares at him for a moment before forcing the next words out of his mouth.

“Wh — no, Castiel, I did. I just — people don’t usually...talk that way.”

Castiel frowns. “Do they not tell you that they enjoy spending time with you?”

Bewildered, Dean shakes his head.

“No, it’s not that...it’s just that you and I barely know each other. I mean, hell, I totally loved talking to you about music and stuff. But I was just...surprised. That you said it that way.”

Castiel nods. He seems to understand where Dean is coming from, though the puzzled expression never leaves his face.

“Should I not say it?”

Dean wipes a hand down his face as he sighs.

“No...no. You can say whatever you want, okay?”

Castiel nods. He regards Dean with those bright, piercing eyes that seem to stare straight into Dean's mind. It makes him shiver.

"I would like to come to your house to see your music collection sometime. Is that...okay?”

That makes Dean laugh wholeheartedly as he shoots Castiel a smile. God, this guy is strange. But, strangely enough, Dean doesn’t mind it as much as he thought that he would. Castiel talks like a robot, Dean decides. A very sincere, very talented robot. He's honest - Dean could give him that much. It's an honesty that, despite Castiel's stiff, awkward way of speaking, makes it easier to talk to him.

“That’s okay!” Dean assures him. “You can meet my brother. Wanna come back now?”

Castiel shakes his head, suddenly appearing crestfallen. His shoulders visibly slump, making him look smaller than he already is.

“Michael and my father will be expecting me for dinner. I do not want to upset them.”

That puzzles Dean, but he doesn’t push. Couldn't he just tell them he'd be a little late...? But then again, Dean knows better than to question his own father's demands - when he has them.

“Yeah, yeah, sure...maybe tomorrow then?” he asks hopefully. “You can meet my brother, Sam. He’s a weirdo, but I promise he’s not a jerk like your brother is.”

Castiel frowns as they walk, but nods in response to Dean's offer without saying another word. Soon, the neighborhood begins looking like its former self again; greener yards. Kept houses. The same, boring American life that’s supposed to be the life. Dean sighs.

“Well...I guess your jerk brother kicking you out of the house wasn’t so bad after all, huh?” Dean says. Castiel nods in agreement.

“No. It wasn’t. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I don’t really have...um...friends.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, I just got here. So that makes two of us. Wanna be friends?”

He holds out his hand to shake. Castiel stares at it for a long moment, before reaching out his own hand on the same side in a very awkward, backward handshake.

“I would like that,” Castiel says. “Goodbye, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah...see you tomorrow.”

Very seriously, Castiel nods, before turning and hurrying back towards his house. Dean watches him go, shaking his head in disbelief.

What's with him? Dean thinks to himself. 

But Dean would be lying if he didn’t like it. Just a little bit. His second day in this new place and already, he has a friend. Not a bad start. Whistling “And I Love You So” under his breath, Dean walks the rest of the way back to his house to tell Sam about the strangest kid he’d ever met in his life; his new friend, the talented, musical prodigy, Castiel Novak.

Sam hardly believes him when he tells him about Castiel at dinner time. Having almost no dishes, they eat take-out on paper plates at the small, wooden table. The light above them flickers, and as Dean talks, their father grumbles something about getting it replaced. When Dean mentions Castiel's strange way of talking, John looks up with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Good on you for making a friend. It’s a shame he seems like one of those queer types.”

That strikes Dean. He’s silent for a moment, trying not to gag on his food. Dean knows that word; queer. It's a whispered, deadly word. One shouted across school playgrounds and with rolled eyes when regarding the two men living together in a flat downtown. It's a sneer and a label; a word to avoid. Dean has to swallow his food with a thick gulp before he finds the words to respond.

“Dad, it isn’t like that,” he argues weakly, swallowing his bite past the thick lump in his throat. John scoffs, clearly not convinced.

“Dean, it’s always like that with kids like him. I’m not saying you can’t be friends with him. Just watch your back. You know how that type gets sometimes. And you can always tell real young, too.” 

"Dad, you have no way of knowing if he's a queer or not," Sam points out. Dean flinches, already knowing where this is going to end up.

"Samuel, I'm older than you, and I've been on this planet long enough to know a queer when I see one. And I'm just telling Dean that he should be careful. Mind your manners and eat your dinner."

Dean can feel the tension leave his body when Sam rolls his eyes and does as he's told - something he seldom does. Dean just wants this conversation to end already. He quickly changes the topic and begins asking his father about the garage, and soon, Castiel is forgotten as quickly as he had been brought up.

After dinner, Dean turns on one of his records while Sam pages through his comic books. He tries not to think about the conversation at dinner, and he doesn’t bring it up with Sam. Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to feel about Castiel potentially being one of the “queer types” - it doesn’t really matter that much, does it? Dean doesn’t know and he decides he won’t care, despite the nagging, pressing feeling in his chest that doesn’t go away, even with his face buried in a magazine. He’s so distracted, he doesn’t hear the sound drifting through their open window from outside; not at first. But Sam does. He frowns as he slides off the bed, edging towards the window near Dean’s side of the room.

“Dean, do you hear that?” he says lowly. 

Dean looks up, lost in his own thoughts. Startled by Sam's interruption, he frowns.

“Hear what?”

Sam shakes his head. “Turn the music off.”

“Dude, no way. This is Aerosmith.”

“Dean, seriously! Listen!”

Dean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t turn it off, but he does lower the volume to listen to what Sam was saying. He points outside, and after a moment, Dean hears it, too; the faint sound of an out-of-tune piano. He flips the record off quickly, scrambling onto his own bed by the window to listen to the sound. Gentle, expertly played, yet tragically out of tune on a run-down piano, the sound is undeniably familiar as it wafts softly through the house next door. It’s enough to make Dean stop and listen with rapt attention. Just like when Dean listened to Castiel play before, he can hear the lyrics in his head, clear as day, as though somebody was singing right along with the melody drifting in a gentle pool of chords and rhythm in the night;

_Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends_

_Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends_

_Oh, I get high with a little help from my friends_

_Yes, I get by with a little help from my friends..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2  
August 1976**

\--

The boys can’t start school yet; their paperwork isn’t in order, and John has to figure out how to track down their social security cards and means of identification before they can so much as step through the doors. As anxious as it makes Sam, Dean is grateful for the week off before having to even  _ think _ about school. And so, the brothers spend their time unpacking, helping their father at the garage, and finding out everything they can about the small town. They quickly figure out there isn’t much to “figure out” at all.

There’s a side of town that “you don’t go towards unless you’re desperate, a drunk, or looking for a prostitute” as their father warned them; the side of town Dean and Castiel had almost found themselves wandering into earlier that week. Save for that, there's nothing else interesting about the little town.

It has a diner, quaint and small and always smelling like cigarettes and cheap beer. It has a movie theater in driving distance. And that was it. Dean hates it here already, a thought he keeps mostly to himself. Sam is thrilled and he doesn't want to ruin his brother's joy.

Throughout the week, his thoughts are mostly occupied by Castiel and the strange mannerisms of his neighbor that fascinate Dean as much as they intrigue him. All week, he wanted to visit him again, and all week, their father drags Dean and his brother to the garage to set up paperwork and contact clientele or move furniture around the dusty rooms. Dean is grateful his hands stay occupied - but he’s eager to go out and see his neighbor again.

Having woken up hours after Sam the following weekend, Dean rubs the back of his head as he looks around the room, groaning at the small mess of unpacked boxes that still line the bedroom he and Sam share. It would take an hour, at least, just to unpack their room. But, after grabbing a bite of a pop tart for breakfast, he gets to work. He’s determined to go and see Castiel today. He has an odd fixation on the strange boy and his even-stranger mannerisms. Like a puzzle he can’t quite piece together, he wants to  _ solve _ Castiel. Feeling motivated, Dean unpacks the rest of the bedroom with Sam mechanically, staying quiet the entire time.

He also decides that he won’t think about what his dad said at dinner the week before. He doesn’t care and it doesn’t matter. Even if he would never dare to say that to his father out loud.

Saying bye to Sam, he nearly runs out the door, pretending he doesn’t hear his father calling his name from the doorway as he hurries across the lawn to Castiel’s house. In the warm, early fall, his jacket is almost too hot to wear as his worn boots thud across the well-kept grass. Around him, birds chirp in the late morning. Though the sun feels good on his face, something feels strangely simple about the day. There would be more of these days. Then they’d grow cold. Then they’d grow warm again. And Dean knows that nothing would change at all.

Huffing an impatient sigh, Dean hurries across the uneven stone walkway and knocks on the door eagerly, stepping back as he waits for an answer. The door opens after almost a minute, and Dean finds himself looking down at a young boy, no older than five or six years old. His dirty face peers from behind the door, a pale face masked behind a thin layer of food and filth. A small mess of light brown hair sprawls across his tiny head, and his blue shirt is torn with several holes near the bottom. His eyes are unfocused, darting up and down as they peer up at Dean.

“Oh, hey there,” Dean greets him with a small wave. The child’s appearance unsettles him. Dena coughs awkwardly into his arm before speaking again. “Is Castiel home?”

The little boy looks behind him, shifting where he stands. “He doesn’t feel good,” he says finally. His voice is small. Far away.

Dean frowns before asking, “Is he alright?”

The boy shrugs his shoulders. He looks down at his feet, clearly uncomfortable looking directly at Dean. In a small voice, he says, “He can’t come outside today. He doesn’t feel well.”

The boy says it without looking at Dean at all. His voice is small and mechanical. Like he's lying to Dean.

"Are you sure?" he asks slowly. Trying to prod for more information. The boy nods quickly. 

“Alright. That’s fine. Tell him I stopped by, okay?”

The little boy nods meekly. “Are you Dean?” he asks. Dean grins.

“Yep. That’s me.”

The boy smiles shyly. “I’m Gabriel. Cas’ said that he had fun with you yesterday and that he wanted to play a song for you last night. Did you hear the song?

Dean blinks in surprise. Castiel had played a song? For him?

“Wait, seriously?” He huffs a weak laugh. “Hell...yeah, I heard it. It was...really good. Tell Cas’ it was awesome, okay? I loved it.”

Gabriel nods. “I will. Bye, Dean.”

“See ya.”

Dean smiles as Gabriel shuts the door. Taken aback, he rubs the back of his head, trying to work through everything the little boy had just told him. And why did the boy’s excuse of Castiel being sick not sit right with him?

Confused as he is, the thought of someone playing a song for him makes him smile. His cheeks even grow unnaturally warm, and Dean has to look around to make sure nobody can see him flush. He can’t deny he’s disappointed that Castiel can’t come outside. There was just this boring town for Dean to explore; the boring town he should love after spending so much time on the road. Hotels, apartments, sometimes a friend’s house of their dad’s that drank too much beer or brought countless women home. Changing schools every couple of months, never lingering in one place for long enough for Dean to make any friends. Dean should like that they’ve finally found a place to  _ settle.  _ A place where he might even make a lasting friend. 

Maybe he’s just grown so used to seeing so many different places that finally staying put feels like a cage. He swallows the thought uncomfortably as he wanders down the street, aimless to any destination. He could visit the school; but he really,  _ really _ doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to go to school on Monday and be forced to make school friends. Endless piles of homework that his little brother seems to get through with ease, bitchy teachers, bullies…

Dean sighs. Instinctively, he shoves his hands into his pockets. He hates being bored. And he hates having to deal with being bored. He wants to make friends, but he hates trying to make them. He’s learned to depend on the company of his brother and his father when his father was around and not at work.

“Hi, there!” a voice calls out. “Are you one of the boys who just moved in?”

Dean looks over his shoulder. A woman wearing long, brown pants and a tucked-in button-up shirt waves at him from the yard outside her house. She places her hands on her hips, giving him a warm smile. Dean waves, a bit awkwardly, and nods.

“Yeah. My brother and I moved in with our dad yesterday.”

The woman nods, walking down the driveway to give him a proper greeting. “Good to hear it. I’m Jodi. We haven’t had anyone move in here for quite a while. You busy? I just made some lemonade.”

Dean looks around. “Oh, uh, no it’s okay,” he says quickly.

She laughs gently. Her laughter is firm but soft. Motherly, even. It sounds like the whisper of his mother’s laughter, a memory that shakes Dean to his core. Threatens to lower his barriers against his own will.

“I know it’s okay,” she tells him. “Trust me. I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.”

Dean feels his face heat up again. But he nods quickly. She gives him a pat on the shoulder before motioning him to follow her up the driveway. He follows her, hands shoved inside his jacket pockets, feeling a little self-conscious following a kind stranger inside her home. But once inside, the warmth of the house settles over his shoulders, making him sigh pleasantly. The kitchen smells clean; several dishes linger in the sink, and the brightly colored floors shine pleasantly under Dean’s worn boots. Her kitchen, like every house he’s seen so far, is small and quaint. As promised, a pitcher of lemonade with ice cubes rests on the clean, picturesque counter.

“So, where’d you move from?” she asks. She regards Dean, giving him and his old clothes a once-over before moving to hang up her coat by the door.

“We were spending some time in Springfield, Missouri while my dad hopped around jobs. Then we settled here. We’ve kinda been all over...mostly in the midwest. But we spent some time in Rhode Island for a few months.”

She nods, pouring him a glass and sitting down across from him at the table.

“Wow. So you’ve seen just about everything, huh?”

Dean shrugs. “I guess. It was mostly just...my dad working. I’d watch Sam, make him breakfast, go to school when we were able to actually  _ go. _ Sam likes school, but I think it’s kinda dumb.”

Jodi laughs pleasantly. He’s expecting her to scold him for saying such a thing - but she only smiles in that pleasant way that reminds him chillingly of his own mother. He can’t help but wonder i

“School isn’t for everyone,” she says. “But it can be the difference between making a living and struggling on your own.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, managing a small smile. “I guess so.”

She nods, taking a long, lingering sip from her glass before saying, “I’m sorry if I’ve come off as a little forward — people just tend to get lost in this little town, sometimes. I like newcomers to know they have a friend in me if they ever feel that way.”

Dean takes a sip from his glass. It’s  _ very _ good; sweet, tangy, not too sour. He’s never had anything but store-bought lemonade before, and never even knew how to make it himself. He gulps down the whole glass in one go, and Jodi grins before pouring him another.

“What do you mean by ‘lost’?” he asks quietly. 

Jodi sighs. “You know, I wish I could tell you the answer to that. I...don’t really know how to put it into words. It’s like...people lose their way. This town can be kind. And it can be cruel. It can make you feel cut off from the rest of the world. People end up here like you, sometimes...spending time in different places, hoping to settle down. And I think it tricks them into thinking they’re stuck in the same place. Stuck in the same routines, the same mindset, the same...well, everything. Sometimes people make crazy decisions when they feel stuck. Does that make sense?”

Dean frowns, but he nods slowly. He’s not sure exactly what she means -- but he thinks he understands what it means to feel  _ stuck.  _ Already, this place was starting to weigh on him. 

“I don’t like feeling stuck,” Jodi continues. “And I’m sure a boy your age doesn’t want to feel that way, either.

Dean laughs a little, shuffling his feet. “No, I definitely don’t.”

Jodi smiles. “Good. That’s all this is - a little welcome to the neighborhood. And a promise from a friendly neighbor to always reach out if you think you’re getting stuck. Do you start school on Monday?”

Dean nods, trying to process what she said before nodding. Is feeling like the walls of this town are slowly closing in around him what she means by  _ stuck? _ He wants to ask but quickly decides against it.

“Yeah, Sam and I start tomorrow,” he says, instead.”

“Good. You make friends with any of the neighbors yet?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, a little. Castiel...he lives next door. We talked yesterday. He’s cool, even if he seems a little…”

There’s a pause as Dean struggles to find the right words.

“Odd?” Jodi offers with a small smile.

Dean laughs as he nods in agreement, secretly relieved she didn’t say  _ queer _ as his father had. “Yeah. Odd. But cool. I like him. I wanted to hang out with him today, but his little brother said that he was sick.”

That seems to strike Jodi. She frowns, looking down at her own glass. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth before starting to speak again.

“Yeah...that boy gets sick pretty often. Always seems to come back from his sick days with a bruise or a swollen eye.”

Dean looks up at her, puzzled. He feels a strange weight settle over his chest -- and understanding that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

Jodi shrugs. “That’s just what I’ve noticed. You should keep an eye on that one, Dean. He’s a good boy. A very, very good boy. Sometimes, I see him walking alone, or with his little brother Gabriel, and...well...I worry. That’s all.”

Dean nods quickly. “Right, yeah. I’ll uh, I’ll watch out for him,” he assures her. That seems to satisfy her. Maybe Castiel isn’t the strange one - this whole  _ town _ seems strange. The dirty boy at the door, Cas, now Jodi, inviting him inside like she’s known him forever, worried he’ll feel  _ stuck.  _ As if anyone could feel free in a place like this...

“Well. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to pop outside and welcome a newcomer. I’ll let you continue on your way, okay?”

Dean gives her a small, guarded smile as he stands, handing her his empty glass.

“Okay. Thanks for the lemonade.”

She smiles. “Always a pleasure. You’ll stop by if you need anything, won’t you?”

Dean nods. “I will.”

“Good boy.” She gives him a playful tug on his jacket. “I’ll be seeing you, then. Good luck with school tomorrow.”

And with that, he hurries out her door, puzzled by everything she’d told him. 

Dean tries to occupy his time wandering around the neighborhood as much as he can. But, very quickly, boredom gets the best of him. He finds himself wandering back home, glancing over at Castiel’s house. Wondering if he’d hear the familiar melody of his piano-playing, or even catch a glimpse of him. 

What Dean  _ does _ hear isn’t the gentle sounds of an out-of-tune piano - it’s something else. Muffled sounds of yelling sound from the windows, and in the quiet, sunny afternoon, he hears a child crying. His mind flashes back to the sight of the scrawny, dirty boy in the doorway. Pausing, Dean frowns as he listens to the unintelligible sounds of yelling coming from somewhere inside the house. Despite standing all the way across the yard, Dean could still make out the sound. Haunting. Enough to make Dean’s fingers twitch by his sides.

Before he can hurry away, the door slams open, and the oldest brother stalks out. Michael, looking angry enough to strike anyone who draws too close. The older boy locks eyes with Dean, and an angry, bitter scowl stretches across his face.

“Get out of here, kid,” he snaps. “Before you get what’s coming for being a snoop.”

Startled, Dean frowns, biting back the urge to yell at the older boy. Michael slides into an old, blue jalopy parked in the driveway and slams the door, speeding away down the street. Dean can still hear yelling from inside the house as he watches the car drive away, but it’s too muffled to make anything out. Wincing, Dean turns back and hurries the sidewalk, eager to put as much distance between himself and that house as he possibly can. A part of him hopes,  _ really, really _ hopes, that Castiel is okay. Another part of him wants to heed Michael’s warning - he barely knows Castiel, anyway. Why should he make anything his business…?

But that doesn’t matter to Dean. He had spent a day with Castiel; he wants to spend more. After hearing Jodi’s warning and the yelling coming from the house, Dean can’t deny the worm of worry curling through his gut as he hurries upstairs to his room. Holding out for the hope that he’d see him in school, Dean flops onto his bed. Sam must be out with their dad; his bed is empty and perfectly made. Dean tries to distract himself with his music, but every time he does, Castiel keeps swimming back into his vision. Why does he act so weird? Why is that music pendant so important to him? What did Jodi mean by bruises whenever Castiel gets sick? 

He plays his records loudly, even tries to watch TV. The distractions mostly work, for a little bit; when Sam and John get back, arms full of grocery bags of frozen dinners, Dean doesn’t mention Castiel at all.

After the boys eat and go to bed, Dean is sure he hears piano music wafting through the window at around 2:00 in the morning. He’s too groggy to pinpoint the sound; but the music is slow, melancholy, and undeniably sorrowful in the soft, melodic chords. Too exhausted to even sit upright, Dean blinks in the early morning, trying to piece together the music, but he’s far too tired to do anything but turn over and fall back asleep.

When Sam wakes him up for school the next morning, Dean is sure it was nothing but a dream. 

They get dressed. Dean pours Sam a bowl of cereal as they try to get ready quietly enough not to wake up their father. Once they’re finished, they walk side-by-side to the large school several blocks down, much to Dean’s begrudged moping. If he has to go to school, he’s going to make it Sam’s problem as much as possible. But maybe, just maybe, a small part of him is hoping he’ll be able to see his strange, next-door neighbor friend.

And, much to Dean’s delight, he  _ does. _ Castiel stumbles into first-period math class just as Dean is forced to mumble out a boring introduction about himself from the back of the class. Castiel slips in, nearly cutting Dean off when he catches Castiel’s exhausted, pale face and unfocused eyes. He stumbles on his way to his desk, earning a snicker from some of the other classmates as he collapses into a chair three down from Dean’s. Dean can barely focus as he forces himself to scribble out his excuse for his math work during the agonizing forty minutes spent confined to his desk. When the bell  _ finally _ rings, Dean almost stumbles himself to catch up to Castiel as he hurries out of class without sparing Dean so much as a glance.

“Hey, Castiel!” Dean says quickly. Castiel stiffens but turns to face Dean. His eyes are red and blotchy like he’d been up all night with little sleep. An ugly bruise stretches across the corner of his mouth, poorly concealed with makeup.

“You — whoa...are you okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says curtly. “I...didn’t sleep well last night and I slipped coming down the steps. I’m sorry I missed you yesterday. I was sick.”

“Yeah, Gabriel told me,” Dean says softly, a little taken aback. Jodi’s words echo in his ears:  _ Always seems to come back from his sick days with a bruise or a swollen eye. _

“Are you...feeling better?” he asks cautiously.

“Yes. Somewhat,” Castiel mumbles. His eyes glaze over for a moment, until he snaps back to reality, as though just remembering that Dean is sitting beside him. “I would like to spend time with you again today. If that is okay with you.”

Dean immediately smiles at the thought. The nerves bundled tight in his gut seem to ease slightly. 

"Yeah! You can walk home with me and Sam after school today. I got the new Aerosmith record  _ finally _ and it’s super cool…”

His voice trails off as the two boys look at one another. Castiel always seems to look  _ right at _ Dean, as though trying to look straight through his eyes. It makes Dean shiver, but it also makes it nearly impossible to look away. When Castiel smiles, it’s a weak smile. But a smile all the same.

“I would love to hear it,” he says. “Tell me more about it at lunch.”

“Yeah, totally. Meet me at lunch! I’ll see ya later!”

The bell rings. Castiel gives him another weak smile before they walk in opposite directions towards their respective classes. With a slight jolt, Dean realizes that in the short amount of time the two have spent together, he’s talked Cas’ ear off about music. Sure, Castiel loves music, too. But Dean’s knowledge of rock-’n’-roll transcends that of most boys his age. From what Dean could understand, Castiel knows little about the music world, limited only to what he could play on that old piano. And he had listened to every word Dean had to say — listened  _ intently _ . That’s more than he could say of his father, or of his brother. More of what he could say for  _ himself _ when others are speaking to him.

The rest of the day goes by far more quickly than Dean expected. At lunch, he and Castiel sit together. Predictably, Castiel is quiet; very quiet. Dean feels a little awkward trying to start a conversation with him at first when they brave the cafeteria lines to get their food before sitting down. But when he does, he watches the way Castiel’s bright eyes seem to widen a little more than before. How he even leans in towards Dean, slightly, to listen to him talk. Dean finds himself having to shift back slightly where he sits; he’s sure Castiel’s nose will touch his own if he doesn’t. Dean is a central force of gravity to Castiel, it seems - something the other boy drifts so close to without even understanding why.

“I would like to listen to that other record you told me about, too,” Castiel says seriously as the lunch bell rings. “Breakfast In America.”

Dean wholeheartedly agrees. He takes his tray up to the dishwashing line as the cafeteria scrambles to life with fast-moving high schoolers. “Supertramp is awesome. You’d love them.”

“Can we listen to them when we go to your house?”

“Yeah!” 

That seems to please Castiel. He offers Dean a crooked smile, not quite whole due to his swollen lip. They agree to meet by the stairs to walk home together with Sam. It puts a spring in Dean’s step for the rest of the boring day; school, somehow, feels more manageable when he has something like  _ a friend _ to look forward to. He all but forgets about the events of yesterday; none of that matters now, right? He has a friend. A friend who likes him. A friend he eagerly wants to spend time with.

If anybody had asked, Dean would not be able to remember what he did at school all day, or what the names of his teachers were. His thoughts were full of Castiel.    
  
Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.    
  
The name rings in his mind clear as the summer sky, dripping with impossible blue.

Dean and Castiel talk the whole way back to their house. As usual, Castiel is quieter, content to listen to Dean with a keen ear. Dean almost feels bad for talking so much, especially since Sam has said virtually nothing since Dean told them Castiel would be walking home with them. But when they get inside, Dean’s guilt shifts to something unidentifiable when he catches his father’s eye watching the two of them closely as they step inside.

“Dad, this is Castiel,” he says quickly. Their father gives Castiel a small wave, but even Dean catches the way his father watches him as they hurry upstairs to their room with Sam in tow.  _ One of those queer types.  _ His father’s rings like a low, forgotten melody; a reminder that Dean cannot seem to shake. Dean shakes his head to clear the memory from his mind. He isn’t going to let anything spoil this now.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Castiel asks seriously. Dean nods as they sit on the floor in their room. Sam decides to stay downstairs, wanting to start his homework early without any distractions. Sensing Castiel’s eyes on him, he shifts where he sits, trying to occupy his hands.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says quickly. “I’m fine.” Dean takes the record Cas had requested - Breakfast In America - and begins playing it. The music is a relief. A distraction. Something to occupy the quiet space in the room. His eyes wander over to his friend, settling on the bruise across the corner of his mouth.

"I think you'll like this one," Dean assures him. “Do you, um, want any ice? For your mouth? It looks…” His voice trails off. Castiel gives him a small smile but merely shakes his head before saying, "No. It's okay. It is less sore than it was yesterday. You don't need to worry about me."

"Oh, pssh, I wasn't worried…"

Castiel laughs gently. His laugh is musical, Dean realizes with a jolt. It rises and falls with the melody like the music was written to the sound of his laugh. Like it would fit with any song, any melody, or progression of chords. Dean blinks, catching himself laughing nervously under his breath. 

"You blink a lot when you're worried or anxious, Dean," Castiel says pointedly. "I wasn't sure why you did it until I thought about it for an hour last night. And then I realized that you do it when you're nervous. I believe you also look away."

Dean sputters, completely at a loss for how to respond. Castiel  _ clearly _ has no qualms speaking his mind or admitting he had spent time analyzing Dean's body language. Dean didn't even know that about  _ himself _ . He just stares at the other in disbelief, trying to laugh it off.

"My point being, you are worried about me,” Castiel continues slowly. “And you should not be. Okay?"

Dean gapes at him before responding. He's dimly aware of his cheeks flushing. He feels  _ seen. _ Not violated, but understood in a way that does make him uncomfortable. Like all of his secrets would be laid bare in front of the other no matter how much he pushes them down. But Castiel means no harm. He’s an observer and a keen one at that. Someone who, apparently, wants to understand Dean as much as Dean wants to understand him.

"Yeah, gotcha," Dean squeaks. That satisfies Castiel. Sitting in silence, Dean shivers slightly and settles for bobbing his head along to the music, pleased when Castiel finds himself humming along.

"I like this song," Castiel says. "What is this one called?"

"This one's 'Goodbye Stranger'. I think it's about meeting someone you don't know very well, but, like, thinking they're really cool right away. But then they have to say goodbye."

Castiel nods. "So like us. Without the goodbyes, of course."

Castiel is going to  _ kill _ Dean, Dean decides. Castiel's shameless expressions of friendship and understanding of Dean are unlike Dean had ever heard before. He'd never met anyone with such a lack of fear of expressing how he feels. Dean likes it. He likes it a lot. It makes him want to  _ trust _ Castiel. But hell if he knows how to properly respond.

"Yeah. L-like us," Dean affirms. He laughs, aware he's blinking nervously, as Castiel had pointed out, and it only makes him laugh harder. A little shyly, Castiel laughs, too. Looking down, Dean finds that Castiel is clutching the broken necklace tightly in his hand.

"I think I'm blinking again," Dean laughs. Castiel covers his mouth as he laughs; that melodic, beautiful sound that makes Dean want to hear it again and again. 

"You are," Castiel points out. "It's very funny."

Once the two calm down again, they continue listening to the record in silence. After a few minutes, Dean catches Castiel toying with the chain of the necklace when he eventually pulls it from his coat pocket again.

"Did you get that necklace fixed yet?" Dean asks. Castiel looks at it before shaking his head.

"No, I haven’t.”

"I think I know how to fix it. I used to help my dad fix small parts of the car when we were driving around a lot. This is probably a lot easier to fix up.”

Dean reaches out his hand. Castiel gives him a guarded frown, withdrawing it slightly, before slowly extending his hand to drop it into Dean’s outstretched palm. 

"Gimme one sec. You stay here."

He races down the stairs; a young boy on a mission, possibly the most important mission he's ever given himself, to ask his dad and Sam where the tweezers are. His dad gives him an odd look, before disappearing into the garage and reappearing with a set of small pliers.

"That your friend's necklace?" his dad asks. Dean nods. 

His father frowns. "Doesn't really look like a boy's necklace."

Dean shrugs. "It's-it's fine, Dad," he mumbles. Without another word, he takes the pliers - and the necklace - and hurries back upstairs. He's aware of Castiel’s eyes on him as he rummages through a half-unpacked box before pulling out an old dog tag chain. He begins working off the clasp of the chain with the pliers, sitting across from Castiel as he does.

"Dean, I don't want you to ruin your own necklace for me," Castiel says seriously. 

Dean shakes his head as he works, concentrating intently on the task at hand. The silver necklace would be  _ fixed _ if he has anything to say about it.

"I never wear it,” Dean murmurs. “I was either gonna give it to Sam or get rid of it anyway." 

He slowly begins working the clasp of the dog tag chain off with careful precision, setting it aside once it’s free. He’s aware of Castiel’s eyes on him as he painstakingly straightens out the bent, broken clasp of Castiel’s necklace, taking care not to damage the small links on the chain before slipping the clasp through the open link. With the music in the background, Dean finds it relatively easy to concentrate on his work - even with Castiel's bright eyes tracking his every move.

When he's done, he holds it out with a wide smile for Castiel to see. Carefully, Castiel takes it from Dean and holds it up to his neck to secure it around his throat.

"I can feel a slight difference in the necklaces pressure against my skin due to the different clasp," he says. Dean bites his lip as Castiel’s fingers brush over the pendant. Did he not like it?

"But...I'm so grateful that you fixed it. It’s fixed. Thank you, Dean. This necklace belonged to my mother. It holds a great deal of meaning for me."

Dean lets out a breath of relief that he didn't know he was holding before leaning back against the bed.

"I'm glad. And it's no problem. The record player was my mom's. I’d lose my shit if anything happened to it."

He forces out the words between his teeth. He hasn't spoken about his mom in years and the words feel heavy and uncertain coming from him. Usually, Dean is eager to avoid the conversation altogether. But here he is, telling it to some boy he's known for two days. Dean shifts uncomfortably where he sits.

"Your mother is dead," Castiel says slowly. It's not a question - rather, a carefully worded observation. Dean feels a chill work its way down his spine as Castiel’s bright eyes pierce into his own. Softly, Dean nods, averting his gaze down to his hands. Slowly, Castiel reaches out and takes Dean’s hand in his own, squeezing it softly. He gasps; Castiel's hands are pale and cold as a gentle snowfall, and his grip is firm around Dean's. Such a touch is alien to him. But he makes no move to pull away.

"Mine is too. She wanted me to have this necklace before she died."

Dean's heart skips a beat as he watches Castiel in breathless silence.

"You have somebody who understands, Dean," Castiel says seriously. "Do not forget that."

The empty, shallow words of comfort he's always gotten from others at the mention of his dead mother don't come from Castiel. Shallow expressions of grief always came from people who could never understand, and who would surely rather be dead than truly be able to understand what it is like to lose a mom at such a young age. They've meant well, sure. But Dean has gotten so,  _ so  _ sick of hearing it. But Castiel’s low, simple comfort - the simplicity of his words, the hard grip of his cold hand, provide more of a comfort to Dean than he’s ever received from anybody else. It's serious, it's short, and it's undeniable truth rings in Dean’s ears. These are words, Dean knows, from somebody who  _ gets _ it. From somebody who's sick of empty words of condolences, too. He doesn’t ask Castiel how his mom died - not yet. Not now. Not when he’s trembling too badly to even think about how to return the sentiment. But Castiel, for all his social shortcomings, seems to understand.

"Thanks, Castiel," Dean whispers hoarsely. Castiel nods, and after a moment, releases Dean’s hand.

Dean likes silence as much as he likes talking. And the silence that follows the two boys is comfortable. They sit and finish their homework, and eventually, Sam joins them too. Dean puts on an Aerosmith record when the Supertramp one ends, and Castiel hums along when he picks up on the rhythm. Dean is tempted to ask about Castiel's nighttime piano playing, but keeps silent about it, for now. Castiel is a boy that Dean has known for two weeks. But now, he's someone who Dean knows he doesn't want to ever let go of or scare away. Dean wouldn't be able to bear it.

After a few hours of mindless chatter about music and homework, Castiel announces that he has to go home.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean. Perhaps we can walk to school together?"

Dean eyes Sam, silently asking permission. But he says nothing. Sam offers a shrug, instead.

"Yeah, totally," Dean tells him. "Sam and I will be outside by 7:00. I'll see you then?"

Castiel offers a little nod, before saying, "You will. Thank you for having me, Dean. And you too, Sam. Thank your father as well, please."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure thing," Dean says. See ya later."

"Goodbye."

Sam looks up. "Bye."

And with that, Castiel walks out of the brothers' room. When the sound of the front door shuts downstairs, Sam eyes Dean with a slight frown.

"He's  _ weird _ ," Sam points out, eyeing Dean with a raised eyebrow. "Why does he talk that way?"

Dean shrugs as he puts away his records. "Dunno. That's just how he is."

"And what's with the bruise on his mouth?"

Dean sighs. "He fell."

Sam frowns. "It looks like the one dad gave you when he —"

Dean whirls around, giving Sam a sharp glare. 

" _ Don't,  _ okay? Don't. He  _ fell _ . What happened between me and dad is none of your business, okay? I don't wanna talk about it."

Sam frowns."Why are you being such a jerk?"

"Why are you being such a bitch?"

"I'm not!" He grabs his pillow and hurles it at Dean, who snags it out of the air to throw it right back. He's always had a hard time staying mad at Sam. Their fights rarely lasted more than a day, if even that. He’s not mad, now; Dean feels anxious if anything.

"Just drop it, okay?" Dean asks, his voice dropping. "Please."

Sam sighs. "Whatever. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah. Same."

The brothers get ready for bed in silence. Sam falls asleep almost immediately, but Dean lays in bed, staring at the ceiling as he tries to shut off his brain enough to sleep. Just like today,  _ Castiel _ fills his thoughts with gentle, ebbing music; images flash through his mind, quick as the tide. The roar of the waves rolling to shore clashes in a crescendo of sound. His bruise.  _ One of the queer ones. _ Jodi’s words about him being sick. 

Just as he's ready to drift off to sleep, the familiar, tell-tale music of the out-of-tune piano fills the nighttime. Soft and barely audible, Dean turns his head towards the sound. The familiar ballad takes a moment to find its rhythm, but soon, Dean finds that it is as recognizable as the moonlight singing its brilliance through Dean's bedroom window;

_ Oh darling, will you ever change your mind _

_ I've been feeling left behind _

_ Like a shadow in your light _

_ Like a shadow in your light, in your light… _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
** **October 1976**

\--

The fall comes as it does; falling leaves, busy schoolwork, the chilly air warning of an inevitable winter. With the coming of the chilly season, the boys fall into an easy, yet predictable routine.

Wake up. Get ready for school. Join Castiel outside where he waits, dutifully, on the sidewalk out front of their house. Walk to school. Dean drags his feet through the school day, his fingers itching when all he has to occupy his hands is a pencil. The teachers' voices are dull and out-of-tune. In just two months, he's pulled aside twice by his science and math teachers and asks if he's okay. He's fine — he's always fine. He just doesn't like school. He's never been like Sam, and never will be. If Dean can't listen to music or work with his hands, the task hardly interests him. 

Sam, on the other hand, takes his schoolwork in stride. He walks home with Dean and Castiel most days, except for the days he has the Global Politics Club after school. Dean thinks he's a massive nerd, but secretly, is relieved his brother has something to occupy his time. Something to get him away from their father and the endless fighting the two always seem to stir up any time they’re together. 

Now that they've found a single place to call home, the tensions between Sam and their father are greater than ever before. Dean isn't sure he even noticed it much in the past. Their conversations are short, and even at Sam's young age, his ability to logically argue against their father shocks Dean. When their father isn't working, he drinks. And when he drinks, he gets snappy. He yells. He makes a fuss. Dean doesn't like confronting him; he and his father had always been too close for him to feel comfortable doing that. But Sam doesn't seem to care at all. At their father’s insistence that Sam spends less time at school and more time helping them make loose ends meet at home, Sam refuses to ignore his own academics. He wants to go to college someday. Their father doesn’t agree with college; an expensive waste of time, he calls it. Dean doesn’t have an opinion either way. He steps between them nearly every night, telling them both to calm down. To  _ go to bed _ . Usually, Sam storms upstairs, leaving Dean to take the brunt of their father’s rage.

_ You don’t do enough, _ his father snaps _. You’re ridiculous. You just want to coddle your little brother and protect him from the real world. _

Dean just accepts it. Accepting it means the yelling  _ stops. _ That he can go upstairs and bury himself in his music and car magazines. That he can go back to helping his father with bills and side jobs that can allow them to have a proper home.

But even Dean finds himself avoiding his father more than usual. At least once a week, his father remarks on Castiel, or comments on Dean's lack of more normal friends. Castiel acts  _ queer _ . That word rings like an alarm bell between Dean's ears; harsh, jarring music with no rhyme nor rhythm to make sense of it. It's a whispered word in the hallways of the bullies Dean tries to steer clear of, a word on the television screen echoing through his head. A word he can't seem to escape. 

But, the house is quieter when Sam is occupied after school. He even begins making friends. Dean will talk to some people after class, but he typically prefers to keep to himself; himself, his brother, and Castiel. Castiel is careful to point out to Dean which boys to avoid - especially the Big Three: Az, Dick, and Arry. Cruel and unafraid to show it, they’ve shoved Castiel into a locker on more than one occasion, and often pick fights with younger students.

But, despite the bullies and the drone of boring schoolwork, Dean and Castiel had become inseparable. At lunch, they sit together, sometimes with others from their class. They walk home from school together, chattering idly about music and school. Most nights, Castiel comes home with Dean. He never asks Dean to come to his place, and Dean never asks. An unspoken agreement hangs in the air after Dean’s confrontation with Michael on the day he returned his necklace to Castiel; his house was one to be avoided.

And, most nights after Dean is tucked away in bed, Dean is acutely aware of Castiel’s piano music drifting through his window, usually at night after Sam falls asleep. He’s grown to rely on it, and finds himself restless when he can no longer hear it. If Dean introduces a new album to Castiel, it’s typically a song from there; other times, it’ll be a soft melody about friendship. Sometimes he’ll play songs about freedom. On other nights, he’ll play songs about love. Though the rhythm may take Castiel a moment to find, the song is played effortlessly, like he’s reading the sheet music in his own head.

They don’t talk about Castiel’s nighttime piano playing, and they don’t talk about their mothers. When Castiel comes to school with another bruise, or a strange series of cuts across his face, Dean says nothing. He thinks about it often; sometimes, he even sees it in his dreams. But whatever may be the real cause for Castiel’s injuries, Castiel always blames on his own clumsiness. A trip down the stairs, a tumble into the piano, not watching where he’s going when he gets out of the shower.

Clumsy, when Dean is sure that Castiel is, perhaps, one of the most careful people he’s ever met. Cautious and deliberate with his words and actions, Castiel could focus on a task for a long duration of time, tuning out the rest of the world as he completes a project for school or tries to envision the music chords of a song on Dean’s record player. While Castiel sometimes struggles with writing long, complex essays for school, math problems and music classes fascinated him. He’d spend hours on simple homework assignments, baffling Dean who could never bring himself to understand why school was so important or so fascinating to people like Castiel and Sam. 

On a particularly chilly day, Dean, Castiel, and Sam are hurrying to school, trying to escape the harsh cold. The school day goes as normal; Dean, barely paying attention. Sam, an avid student. And Castiel? Truthfully, he doesn’t know. For as careful and focused on his assignments as he is, it isn’t uncommon for a D or F test grade to be handed back to Castiel, which he quickly pockets without a word. Dean manages to scrape by with D’s, C’s, and the occasional B-. Grades that he takes as a victory.

When the school day ends, Dean grabs his scarf out of his locker before meeting Sam and Castiel by the steps of the school. Footsteps behind him make him turn; the three boys Castiel had pointed out to him before bump shoulders with Dean, making him shoot them an ugly glare. He knows better than to pick a fight with them — so he tries to ignore them, quickly grabbing his scarf to hurry past them as they laugh.

“Walkin’ home with the queer today, Winchester?” Az asks with a smirk.

That word again. It grates against his ears, harsh and demanding to be heard. He knows better than to rile up these three; he’s seen what happens to those who do. Bloody noses, shoved into lockers, and brutal fights after school were only a few. Dean’s had his own fair share of passing comments from the three in the past that he’s mostly been able to avoid.

“Get the hell outta here, Az,” Dean snarls. He slams his locker shut, trying to force his way past them as the three laugh. With slicked, brown hair, Az, the biggest of the three, looks like a greaser. He thrusts out a hand, stopping Dean in his tracks, and lightly pushes him back. The act infuriates Dean more than if the boy had shoved him to the ground.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Az says in an infuriatingly calm voice. He smirks at Dean as Dick and Arry laugh. Dean bares his teeth.

“Let me by!” Dean snaps again. He tries in vain to  _ shove _ his way past them, but Dick and Arry block his path. Dick, the shorter, beefy boy with beady green eyes pushes him hard. Dean stumbles back, nearly losing his balance as Arry, a lanky, nasally boy, strides forward to grab the front of Dean’s shirt.

“How ‘bout you answer our question?” he demands. The smell of his breath makes Dean want to puke. “Ya gonna walk home with the queer Novak kid, or not?!”

Dean looks away. Arry spits in his face, and all three boys laugh. Blinding red flashes across Dean’s vision. He doesn’t think; he just rears his fist back and punches Arry straight in the teeth. A sickening  _ crack _ sounds as a tooth unlodges itself from the boy’s mouth, causing him to gag on it as he clutches his throat and tries to spit it out. Blood gushes from his mouth as he drops to his knees. In an instant, the two boys descend onto Dean, grabbing him by the shirt and shoving him against the locker with blind rage in their eyes. Az punches Dean twice, causing his vision to white out as he tries to stand his ground. 

It’s useless. Together, the three boys are far, far stronger than Dean is alone. They punch him in the gut, again and again, until Dean grows limp in their grip. If not for their harsh grip on his shirt and jacket, he’d have crumpled to the ground. 

Movement to his left strikes his attention. Panicked, the boys let go of Dean, causing his knees to buckle. His eye is throbbing, and his lip already feels swollen and hot. His abdomen hurts with every breath he tries to reign in. 

“Aw, it’s the queer!” Az laughs, ugly and brutal. That word, clawing against Dean’s eardrums, even now. Arry, still bleeding profusely from the mouth, manages a weak laugh. Dean turns, wincing as Castiel stalks forward. His eyes are fixed on the three boys, filled with a wide, deadly rage. Castiel’s mouth is pressed into a hard, thin line. Laughably smaller than the three, Castiel could never hold his own in a fight with even one of them; but at that moment, Dean is certain that he could. Dean has never seen a single person with an expression that could truly  _ kill. _ Before anybody reacts, a pocket knife appears in Castiel’s palm, and Az gasps.

“He’s got a knife!” Az howls. “Yo, shit, get away from this psycho, he has a knife!” 

“Pfft, what, you think that queer’s gonna actually use it?” Dick taunts. Arry looks at him warily. Even Az, the biggest of the three, looks frightened. Castiel draws closer to them, his mouth pressed in a hard, unreadable line. Dean doesn’t even think he’s blinked once.

_ He’s going to kill them, _ Dean thinks to himself _. Oh my God. He might actually try and kill them _

Crossing the distance, Castiel flicks open the knife and holds it to Az’s throat. The blade glints in the hallway lights, brushing against Az’s neck by a hair’s breadth. None of the boys, including Dean, dare to move.

“Were  _ you _ the one who hurt Dean Winchester?” Castiel asks Az slowly. His voice is a low grumble. Dangerous. Az whimpers low in his throat, fear slipping through his bravado.

“M-man, he punched us first!” he chokes out. The other two nod in agreement.

“That was not my question,” Castiel says slowly. His voice drops at least one, full octave. “Were you the one who hurt Dean Winchester?”

Rooted in place, the boys look at one another. Genuine fear hangs heavy in their eyes. Dean can’t bring himself to move; he doesn’t dare try to put himself between Castiel and the three boys.

“I see,” Castiel murmurs. He presses the sharp edge of the blade against the boy’s throat, drawing a whimper from his chest. “Well, if you choose to remain silent, then heed my warning: If you hurt Dean Winchester again, I will make you bleed far worse than a broken tooth. Do I make myself clear?”

The boys nod, speechless. If not for the fact that the knife was entirely real, the scene would almost look funny; the small, scrawny boy in a too-big trenchcoat standing up to the three biggest, nastiest boys in school. But the danger dripping from Castiel’s voice leaves no room for bluff; he would hurt them. Nobody is doubting that now.

“Whatever, man!” Az croaks. “Just leave us alone. Please.”

“Then go.”

Without another word, the boys look at each other and run down the hall and out the school doors. In disbelief, Dean watches as Castiel’s expression softens dramatically; he pockets the knife and offers a hand to Dean who accepts it gratefully. 

“Do you need help walking?” Castiel asks. Dean shakes his head. Pain throbs across his face, but he’s more dazed by what he just saw than anything else.

“No. I think I’m okay. Jesus, Cas’,  _ what was that? _ ”

Confused, Castiel blinks. “What was what, Dean?”

“The - the  _ everything?  _ The freaking knife!”

For a moment, Castiel says nothing. The two start walking down the hall, towards the exit before any teachers could see. Castiel keeps a hand on Dean’s back as Dean clutches his abdomen. He has no idea how he’s going to walk all the way home. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, his entire body  _ hurts _ . He already dreads having Sam see him like this.

“You did not show up at the time you said that you would, so I went looking for you,” Castiel says calmly. “When I saw you slumped against the lockers, I intervened. They hurt you.”

Bewildered, Dean sighs, nodding in pained agreement as he passes a wary glance towards his friend. His friend, who would draw a knife on three bullies just to save him. His friend, who actually  _ carries a pocket knife to school. _

“I mean, yeah. I just — you...you surprised me. A lot. You could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for being caught with a knife at school.”

“It was a risk I was willing to take for you, Dean.”

Dean’s known this guy for two months, and Castiel’s brutal, blunt honesty still manages to stun him into breathless silence.

“You’re crazy, Cas’,” he finally breathes. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Castiel presses his lips together in a hard line. “I know that I didn’t. But you have done plenty of things for me that you did not have to do, yet chose to do. Like fixing my necklace.”

Dean looks at him in disbelief. “Cas’, fixing a necklace is different than pulling a pocket knife on the three biggest assholes in school.”

“I do not see it as different,” he says simply. “I would do it again if I had to. You were hurt. I wanted to protect you. I don’t like seeing you hurt, Dean.”

Dean already feels overwhelmed. They push through the doors in silence, shivering once the chilly air hits Dean’s bloody face. Once they get outside, Sam’s eyes bulge in his head at the sight of Dean’s broken face.

“Did you get into a fight?” Sam asked, awed. “Did you win?!”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Something like that. Cas’ was the real winner. He scared those assholes away so fast, their tails hung between their legs.”

That makes Castiel smile shyly.

“What did you  _ do _ to them?” Sam asks, awed. Castiel shrugs as they begin their walk home. He keeps a protective hand on Dean’s arm, ready to catch him should he stumble. Dean would normally shrug the touch off, but it feels protective. Comforting in a way Dean doesn’t want to admit to himself.

“I scared them,” Castiel says finally. “Did you know that angels from the Bible are not like the angels we see in paintings? They are terrifying creatures with dozens of eyes and bizarre shapes. That was me. I turned into an angel and saved Dean.”

Dean can feel himself blush as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” Dean grunts, pushing Castiel playfully. Castiel laughs.

“You were that time,” he points out. “I saved you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I had it under control…”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, right! Castiel totally saved you. You’re a wimp, you can’t even fight me!”

Dean shoves Sam into a puddle. In return, Sam kicks the freezing water right at Dean’s calves, leaving them soaked and even colder than before. Castiel groans, yanking them both away from the freezing water, scolding them about hypothermia. All three of them laugh - and despite the pain coursing through Dean’s body, he feels strangely calm as they finish their walk home. Castiel, a guardian angel. Dean can hardly believe it.

Hurrying inside the Winchester house, the brothers quickly change out of their wet clothes as Castiel sorts through Dean’s records, humming to himself as he does. Like nothing had happened at all, Castiel is back to his typical, quiet self. The blind range Dean had seen in those bright eyes is gone and soft, tender curiosity takes its place. Castiel’s familiar focus, his blunt clarity, and protective nature makes Dean feel comforted. Makes him feel more at home in this town than any house or any familiar street corner ever could. Dean is grateful their father isn’t home to look at Dean’s face, or potentially make more comments about Castiel that only make Dean uncomfortable and confused.

“Let me get you some ice. For your lip,” Castiel offers. “Sam can show me where your plastic bags are to put the ice in.”

Dean sighs. As much as he wants to pretend this never happened, he knows the swelling won’t go away quickly without something to cool it down.

“Yeah, sure. Can you do that, Sam?” Sam nods. The two hurry downstairs as Dean leans against the side of his bed, breathing a tired sigh. Castiel had really pulled a knife on those three bullies, all to protect Dean. His head swims, and strange, confusing thoughts fill the space in Dean’s mind where he can’t make sense of himself or Castiel. He’s known Castiel for two months, and already, he feels like he’s known him his entire life. He trusts Castiel. And he knows, deep down, if it had been him or Sam in that situation, Dean would have likely have done the same damn thing for either of them. He trusts Castiel, but he also genuinely  _ likes _ Castiel. A lot. In a strange, different way than he likes -  _ loves _ \- Sam. Castiel puts music in Dean’s mind when he isn’t around. Even certain songs on the radio, or on his album, remind Dean of him. It’s...different. And strange. And terrifying. 

When Castiel and Sam return with the ice, Castiel offers to hold it against Dean’s face, and Dean declines. He doesn’t like being doted over and insists he’d do it himself. 

“Your brother is a very stubborn person,” Castiel points out to Sam. Sam groans and rolls his eyes in wary agreement, earning a grumble from Dean.

“Yeah, tell me about it. You know how many times he takes the last bowl of cereal and claims I was hoarding it all?”

Castiel gives a fake look of shock in Dean’s direction.

“Hey, don’t look at me!” Dean insists. “That little freak eats cereal for freaking dinner.”

“Yeah, well, who refuses to cook dinner even on some nights Dad isn’t home?”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “I cook plenty of times.”

“Perhaps I can teach you to cook sometime,” Castiel offers. “I cook for Gabriel quite often, since my father and Michael aren’t home at night, either.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, despite the fact that the action hurts.

“What, so you’re a freakin’ awesome piano player and you can cook? Is there anything you can’t do?”

Castiel rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Dean, you’ve heard me play the piano one time. You can hardly call me an expert.”

Dean blinks. Did Cas’ not know Dean could hear his playing at night? He’s lost for a response, at first, trying to form the right words. He was sure Castiel’s little brother told him that Dean could hear it...didn’t he?

“Uh, I mean — well, I…”

“Cas, I’m sure you’re great. Dean told me that you sounded amazing the time you played when he visited your house.”

Dean has never wanted to thank Sam more than he does now. It shouldn’t be a big deal - but the nighttime playing feels so private. Secretive, almost. Especially when Dean is usually the only one who can hear it. He’d be terrified of embarrassing Cas and making the sound of that playing go away.

"Don't doubt yourself, Cas," is all Dean says. He claps him on the shoulder. "But hell, yeah. Show me your ways, wise one. My cooking isn't terrible, but I could use a few tips."

"Your cooking  _ sucks ass, _ Dean," Sam groans. That earns him another pillow to the face, and Castiel lets out another, musical laugh. Dean laughs right along with him. With the putrid, suffocation of the small town looking over Dean's shoulders and the boring drone of school, Dean knows he'd be miserable here if not for his strange, scrawny friend with the trenchant and the bright, blue eyes. His friend, who is capable of playing beautiful music and descending like a vengeful angel down upon anybody who dares to lay a single finger on Dean.

With Dean nursing his wounds, he's grumpy when Castiel tries to coax him into doing his homework. Eventually, Castiel gets him to finish his science and his math and even manages to get through some of his reading. Sam eventually moves downstairs to finish his own homework in the peace and quiet, away from Dean and Castiel's playful bickering. 

But eventually, as usual, Castiel has to leave. Dean is disappointed but not surprised.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean," Castiel assures him. "Keep the ice on your wound. You'll feel better."

"Sure thing,  _ Dad, _ " Dean teases. Castiel rolls his eyes as Dean hesitantly clears his throat.

"But, uh...really, Cas. Thank you. For today. You scared those guys pretty good. You even scared me, a little."

Castiel smiles. "That was my plan. I'm glad I was successful. Seeing you hurt is not something I am capable of tolerating."

Well, I appreciate it a lot,” Dean huffs. “Really. I can walk you home if you want."

Castiel shakes his head. "That won't be necessary. I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah. See you then."

And with that, Castiel is gone, leaving Dean alone in his room. The ice for his swollen face is melted in the bag, and Dean hastily tosses it aside as he flops down onto his bed. In his head, his friend's name is an endless mantra: Castiel, Castiel, Castiel. The strange, mysterious boy with a heart of gold, the mouth of a brutally honest wise man, and the anger of an avenging angel. The boy with the bruises. The boy with the piano. The boy with the music pendant around his neck that he wears every single day.

Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.

That night, Castiel plays a simple melody just as Dean is about to drift off to sleep. The familiar melody of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” drifts in through his window. As Dean pulls the covers up to his chin, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

The chilly morning makes Dean want to curl back into bed. Instead, he’s standing with Sam out on the sidewalk, checking his watch as Sam tugs on Dean’s sleeve, complaining that they were going to be late for school. Five minutes late, Castiel is nowhere to be seen.

“We’re gonna be late, Dean,” Sam insists. “Either knock on his door or let’s go. I don’t think he’s coming.”

Dean shakes his head. “He’s never late. He always comes,” Dean insists. Knocking on Castiel’s door makes him nervous. But, he swallows his anxiety and marches across the driveway and up to the wooden door, knocking three times with no response.

Dean tries again, knocking loud enough to be heard down the street. Still, no answer. Just as he’s about to turn around, the door opens timidly. The young boy from before, Gabriel, peeks out from behind the door with tears in his eyes.

“Um —” Dean begins. The little boy has dirt smeared across his face. Like before, his small, beady eyes dart across Dean, not focusing on anything in particular.

“Castiel is sick today,” he says softly. The door slams in Dean’s face before he can say another word. For a moment, he stands there, feeling numb. Nausea settles in his stomach before Dean slowly backs away from the house, retreating across the lawn and back towards Sam. He remains silent as he begins stalking down the sidewalk.

“What’s up?” Sam asks.

Dean doesn’t look at him.

“He’s not coming,” Dean grunts.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Sick.”

Sam frowns. “He seemed fine yesterday.”

Dean shakes his head. “I know. Let’s just go, okay?”

“But shouldn’t we —”

“ _ Sam _ . He’s sick. It’s over. I’m done talking about it. Just drop it, okay?”

Sam glares at Dean but remains silent for the rest of the walk to school. Castiel doesn’t show up for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t see him at all when he and Sam walk home. The bullies from the day before, thankfully, steer clear of Dean. He doesn’t even pass them in the hallway.

Without Castiel to walk him home, Dean is reminded just how small this town really is. How suffocating. How pressing. He finds himself glaring at the perfect, minuscule rows of houses on his walk back with Sam as Sam idly chats about his teachers, his clubs, and how he might start walking home with his new friends, instead. Dean is happy Sam is making friends; but now, more than ever, he’s reminded of just how unhappy he is in this tiny town with its tiny people. School hardly matters to him, and neither does anybody else.

From the front lawn, Jodi waves at the boys, and Dean gives a small wave back. He remembers what Jodi said about feeling  _ stuck. _ He  _ does _ feel stuck. There’s nothing to do in this place, save for venturing to the bad side of town with its seedy bars and broken buildings. It’s tolerable until Castiel isn’t around to distract Dean from how unhappy he is to settle down. Not to mention how  _ guilty _ Dean feels for being unhappy. He  _ should _ be happy. They have a solid roof over their heads and Sam is doing well in school. He’s making friends. He’s  _ happy. _ And Dean finds himself thinking about all the places they could see out on the road; just him, Sam, and their father.

And maybe Castiel could be there, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4  
October 1976**

\--

That week, the air is silent. Dean doesn't hear a single sound of the piano and its aching melody, nor does he see any sign of Castiel that weekend. It isn’t until Monday morning rolls around does he see him again, and Dean is secretly relieved. A pit forms in Dean’s stomach in anticipation to see bruises or another swollen lip on his face - but Castiel’s face is blissfully clear. During lunchtime, he’s quieter than usual. Dean chatters idly about some pretty girl named Jo’ in his science class to try and ease the silent tension, but Castiel hardly seems to listen. 

“Hey, man, you alright?” Dean asks, gently poking Castiel’s side. Castiel jumps, blinking frantically as though just realizing Dean was sitting beside him. His food goes almost entirely untouched.

“Yes, yes I am here. Sorry. Yes, Jo’ has nice thighs.”

“I said nice _eyes_ , Cas’,” Dean huffs.

“Yes.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, are you sure you’re okay? You look like someone just scrambled your brains on a stove. Have you heard a single thing I’ve said today?”

Castiel blinks, shaking his head. His eyes are dazed and unfocused, as though he’s only half-present in the real world.

“I apologize, Dean. My mind is...someplace else right now. Forgive me.”

“It’s cool,” Dean assures him hesitantly. Really, he’s not offended - just concerned. He goes to place a hand on Castiel’s shoulder but quickly decides against it. “I just...you just seemed kinda off. That’s all.” 

Before either of them can say another word, the lunch bell rings. Castiel stands abruptly from his seat, marching towards the lunch tray drop-off and hurrying out of the lunchroom before Dean can even call out his name. Stunned, Dean follows suit as Castiel disappears. They’ve always left lunch together — always. Clearly, something is up with him. And, though Dean doesn’t want to think about it, he knows it has something to do with his absence the past couple of days. 

Sam has club after school, and Dean and Castiel walk back alone. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, grappling with how to confront Castiel about his odd behavior. Or if he even should. He decides that the silence, the aching, terrible anticipating, the _not-knowing_ would drive him insane if he didn’t. He sucks in a deep, quiet breath.

“Cas’. You’ve been quiet all day. You should just tell me what’s up.”

Castiel presses his lips together in a hard line. His movements stiff and robotic, he huffs a short sigh.

“I may be getting a job,” he says slowly. Dean blinks at him in confusion.

“You were acting all weird today because of a job? Really?”

Castiel appears to choose his next words carefully. 

“It will be a...tricky job,” he says slowly. “But it will provide a good source of income for myself.”

Dean nods. “Oh. Cool. What's the job?”

“I am going to play the piano.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, giving Castiel a wide smile. Honestly, if that’s all that’s been on his mind, Dean is relieved.

“Whoa, really? That’s pretty cool. You’re good at it. If you’re worried about the damn job, _don’t_. I’ve heard you play before. You’ll nail it.”

Castiel shrugs his shoulders. “Thank you, Dean,” he says simply.

Dean presses him to elaborate, but Castiel claims he doesn’t know what else the job will entail yet. Still, Dean is relieved it isn’t because of his strange disappearance over the weekend. Or because of any bruises or...something else. The haunted eyes of Castiel’s younger brother still trickle through Dean’s memory no matter how often he tries to shove it away. He still hasn’t told Castiel about it yet. It feels like a quiet secret, fragile enough to vanish in the wind should he speak it aloud.

“When do you start?” 

“Tonight,” Castiel says. “If they like my playing, I will return and play again.”

“Oh, sweet. Where’s the place?”

“Around.”

The cryptic answer makes Dean frown, but he doesn’t press for answers. If Castiel wanted him to know, he’d tell him, wouldn’t he?

“Well,” Dean continues hesitantly, “I’d be down for coming to see you play sometime.”

“That won’t be necessary, Dean,” Castiel says simply.

 _Yeah, no shit it’s not necessary,_ Dean thinks to himself. _I’m freaking offering._

“Right,” he says, instead. Castiel’s short response stings a little - but he doesn’t say anything more about it and Castiel offers no further details. When they arrive at Dean’s place after school per their usual routine, Dean pointedly ignores his father’s stares. He casts his eyes to the floor instead as he grunts out a quick 'hello'. He hopes Castiel doesn’t notice. In Dean’s room, he chatters idly about Jo’ some more as Castiel looks through Dean’s records some more, keeping one hand clenched tightly around the music pendant around his neck.

“Jo’ is pretty,” Castiel agrees. He sounds like he’s analyzing a painting instead of talking about an attractive girl in the grade above them. “She looks like a girl one might see on television.”

Dean nods with a huff of a laugh. “I dunno - you think I’d have a shot with her?”

“Um...I don’t know, Dean. Do as you wish.”

Dean sighs, rolling his eyes as he opens a can of Coke. He hands one to Castiel as he flops down on his bed.

“In the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never mentioned a single girl you think is hot. There’s gotta be someone.”

Castiel looks at Dean warily. His eyes seem to crinkle, as though trying unsuccessfully to piece together what Dean is trying to say.

“Meg is pretty, I supposed,” he murmurs, picking up one of Dean’s Elvis records. Dean frowns.

“Cas’, Meg is _terrifying._ She could beat me up with one hand tied behind her back.”

Castiel shrugs. “Perhaps that is what makes her pretty,” he points out. Dean grimaces, wiping a hand down his face.

“Yeah, well, if she bites your lips off when you try to make out with her, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dean huffs. 

“I wasn’t planning on making out with her, Dean. Can we play your Supertramp album again?”

Dean nods, letting Castiel put it on. He’s glad he at least got Castiel talking again, even if his approach to women, much like his approach to _literally everything,_ is weird. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Dean hasn’t been thinking about girls in the past few months as much as he used to.

Downstairs, he hears Sam push through the door. In less than a minute, Dean can hear muffled yelling coming from downstairs; a sure sign that Sam and their father are going at it again. Sam never doing enough for the family. Sam using school work to “escape family responsibility.” The usual shit that Dean doesn’t want to deal with, but knows he has to for the sake of the sanity of the entire family. But Dean can't bring himself to break it up. Not now. He gives Castiel a pained, silent apology that Castiel dismisses with a wave of his hand.

 _No need to apologize_. The words are unspoken and clear as the sunny, autumn day. Dean turns up the album, grateful for the distraction, and even more grateful that Castiel doesn't seem to mind.

After almost a half-hour of listening to the album, Castiel stands up abruptly, startling Dean who had been scowling at his English homework.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean,” Castiel says seriously. Dean nods. He usually leaves later than this, but Dean doesn’t press.

“Oh. Yeah, sure. See ya later. Good luck with your job...thing.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Dean slightly dazed. He’d never understand Castiel, he decides. Sighing, he flops back onto his bed returns to his English homework, giving up after the first question and shoving it back into his backpack with a sigh as he finishes his coke. 

That night, Dean is restless. Sam crawled up to bed without a word when Dean was already trying to sleep. Unable to fall fully asleep, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is _wrong_ when he tries to keep still enough to feel tired. Maybe it’s because, for the ninth night in a row, he doesn’t hear Castiel’s piano playing through his window. He checks his clock - twenty minutes ‘till midnight. With a groan, Dean sits up in bed, rubbing the back of his head as he gazes out the window. The chilly night is mostly clear, the full moon providing a blanket of dim light over the town as it peers through a thin film of clouds. It’s a thin sheen of illumination; a cozy glow, enough to see what’s in front of you, but not enough to see behind the looming shadows of the houses and trees. 

Enough light to see if you’re walking out at night - which, apparently, Castiel Novak intends to do.

Stunned, Dean watches as Castiel carefully opens his window from across the yard and begins slowly climbing down onto the slanted roof. In the dark, his figure is hard to make out — but the scrawny boy cloaked in a tan trenchcoat is impossible to miss, even from a distance. His movements are slow, almost graceful — like he’s done this before, knowing where to carefully place each foot and each steady hand. Carefully, he shifts down near the edge of the roof and begins lowering himself down, inch by inch. 

Dean goes into autopilot. He tears his gaze away from the window and carefully climbs out of bed, moving as swiftly and silently as he possibly can. He yanks on a pair of jeans, throws his coat over his gray tank-top, and hurries down the stairs, holding his breath the entire time. In the living room, his father is asleep to the gentle sounds of the TV, an empty beer can sitting on the table beside him. Dean quickly grabs the flashlight from the toolbox sitting on the kitchen table and hurries outside. 

By the time he creeps around the yard and the tree out front of the Novak family’s house, Castiel is already a ways up the sidewalk, walking silently and entirely by himself. A part of Dean realizes just how incredibly _stupid_ it is to follow Castiel this late at night — how is it any of his business what Castiel does, anyway? Castiel had _told_ him he was going to work a job tonight. But Dean never imagined it was this late. Or this...secretive.

He follows a far distance back, only hurrying to catch up when Castiel rounds the corner of the block and disappears out of sight. From this distance, Castiel wouldn’t be able to hear his footsteps, especially with Dean creeping across the grass of the neighborhood lawns. The streetlights and faint glimmer of the crescent moon provide enough light for Dean to watch Castiel and follow him from a far enough distance not to be detected.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ This is stupid. Dean has no business following Castiel, and already, he feels his cheeks burn at the idea of being caught. But he can’t bring himself to stop. What if something were to happen to him? Dean grits his teeth; stupid. Castiel can handle himself. Castiel isn’t a child, and he’s not Dean’s responsibility. But even still, Dean presses onward. 

Ahead, Dean watches as Castiel slowly brings his arms up to the level of his head. Slowly, he raises his arms and hands in front of him, bringing them down in front of him sharply before repeating the motion again. With a start, Dean realizes he’s acting as a conductor of an invisible orchestra, commanding music that only Castiel can hear inside the musical expanse of his own mind. The movement of his hands changes, spread wide across an invisible piano for a vast audience in Castiel’s own imagination. In the dark, Castiel looks like a ghost; but Dean knows he’s merely painting astounding portraits of music and sound.

It’s something Dean would laugh at if it were anybody else doing it. But watching Castiel make music out of nothing but air transfixes him. He almost forgets to walk quietly as he sets his gaze on Castiel’s invisible performance. Dean can hear the soft, quiet noises of the night; the chirp of the crickets. An owl overhead. The occasional car in the distance. But here, now, Dean is sure he can hear the vivid color of music Castiel is painting in his mind.

Dean doesn’t notice until almost ten minutes later, still cloaked in the shadows of the streetlights, that he’s reached Oak street - the street that takes him to the bad part of town. He remembers Castiel thrusting his arm out in front of Dean when they’d strayed too far down this end of town - but now, Castiel is marching forward, not once halting his stride. He seems to know exactly where to go and how to get there. Feeling increasingly uneasy, Dean rationalizes that following Castiel _was_ a good idea; this part of the town was dangerous. If something happened to him...

No. Dean wouldn’t think about that, now. Deep in his gut, Dean knows he’s making excuses. Without excuses, he feels like a flying idiot for creeping out of his house this late at night just to stalk his friend. He can only picture what Sam would say. Or worse, his father.

No. His father _can’t_ find out about this. Wouldn’t find out about this Not under any circumstances. Dean winces as that ugly word rings in his ears again, harsh and unfaltering. _Queer_ . Shaking himself off, Dean marches forward, ducking behind a tree when Castiel stops across the street from the entrance of a building with a dim, neon sign blinking in bright yellow and white: _PURGATORY._

It’s a bar, Dean knows, and a gross one at that. Even from his careful distance, he can hear loud talking inside, and can practically smell the cheap beer from here. It’s a dive that not even most high schoolers bothered trying to sneak into with fake IDs. Shady and known for keeping unpleasant company, the idea of Castiel walking into a place like Purgatory is almost enough to make Dean laugh out loud. But, much to Dean’s bewildered amazement, Castiel crosses the street and walks around to the side of the building. Unable to believe that he’s actually going to _follow_ Castiel inside, Dean waits until Castiel disappears inside the side door before quietly following in close pursuit. He waits for a full minute before Dean carefully pulls open the door and peers inside.

He's greeted by a dark hallway with several doors on either side. The thud of music sounds from someplace upstairs, mixing with the loud, ceaseless chatter of voices. Down the hall, a cracked doorway reveals a beam of dim, purple light and quiet, older voices. Softly, Dean creeps closer to the door, straining his ears for any sign of Castiel on the other side.

"So any song then?" Dean hears an older man say. 

"Yes. As long as I hear it once."

 _Cas’._ That’s definitely Castiel’s voice. Dean had been right - Castiel was here for his job. A job that, apparently, requires sneaking out of the house at midnight to a shady bar.

"Play one for us, then."

Dean sucks in a quiet breath. A moment of silence greets him. He doesn't dare look around the door in fear of being caught. But sure enough, the tense silence is greeted by the sound of the drifting piano. Dean recognizes the song almost immediately - “Goodbye Stranger” by Supertramp. The song Castiel had asked him to play again and again, one he had been transfixed by on the record player. As Dean listens, the melody drifts through the open door, clear as day, without a single note or chord out of place. Even the rhythm and the pacing sound completely perfect. Dean doesn’t have to watch Castiel play to know that he doesn’t have a music sheet to look off of; he’s playing the entire thing by memory. Transfixed, Dean passes a thick swallow. He’s never, ever heard anything like it, especially from somebody who can listen to a song and play it back so perfectly. 

“Not bad,” another older man says once Castiel is finished.

Dean almost laughs. _Not bad?! That was freakin’ amazing…_

“Thank you,” Castiel says quietly.

“Now, you said you can play any song just by hearing it once, correct? I’m going to play this song. Play it back once it’s finished.”

The familiar scratch of the record in the room begins playing a song Dean doesn’t recognize. Some strange pop song with a difficult rhythm. It speeds up, slows down, and the vocals are all over the place. He winces; there was no way Cas’ would be able to play that back the way he could play the music he hears in Dean’s room. But sure enough, when it’s done, Castiel begins to play. It takes him a minute to adjust to the rhythm, but without fault, he plays it back, leaving Dean stunned.

“That is...very good,” the second man hums. “I’d like to hire you, Castiel.”

Dean hears Castiel gasp.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Wow, thank you, thank you!”

“You’ll play three nights a week for private performances; Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights. If people request a song, you are to play it back. You’ll be expected to know a wide variety of music and play for the older gentlemen who come into the club. And your shift will begin at 11:00 p.m. each night and go until 1:00 in the morning. Is that understood?”

“Yes, yes! Understood.”

“You’ll be paid $10 a night plus the tips the older men will give to you to request music. The house will take 10% of your tips. You are to put a portion of your money in the box before you leave each night. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” Castiel is breathless, enamored. Dean can practically see the light in his eyes. He feels uneasy, listening to the conversation - playing for strange, old men late at night? It doesn’t sit right with Dean. At all.

“Good. We will see you next week, then.”

“Thank you!”

With a jolt, Dean realizes this is his cue to leave. He turns and bolts away from the door, hurrying down the hall before Castiel has a chance to exit the room. He hides behind the dumpsters by the door until he sees Castiel walk outside. Castiel shakes his hands excitedly as he all but skips down the parking lot and hurries down the sidewalk. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend so happy or elated.

 _If only playing the piano for a room full of old men didn’t sound so fucking creepy,_ Dean thinks to himself. What had Castiel gotten himself into?

Dean can’t put his finger on exactly why it felt so...wrong. But he doesn’t trust this place anymore than he can understand how Castiel would find a job like this. Shifting uncomfortably, Dean makes sure Castiel is out of sight before he shrugs his hood over his head and hurries home, thinking about everything he heard. And when he crawls through his bedroom window, careful not to wake his brother, he lays in bed, staring at the dark ceiling in a whirlwind of thought.

_Castiel, Castiel, Castiel._

If Dean Winchester knows one thing, it’s that Castiel’s strange behaviors and even stranger secrets would surely drive him insane one day.

He doesn’t tell Sam about last night. And he doesn’t tell Castiel what he knows, either. Doing so would only confirm that he’s insane for doing what he did. Because, really, he had no rational reason. But, Dean is exhausted from his lack of sleep, and when Castiel joins the brothers on their routine walk to school that morning, he’s equally as tired. The three don’t speak much. Sam, the only one of the three who seemed to have been able to sleep at all, is worried about his math test. But Dean barely hears him. He keeps sneaking glances at Castiel when he’s sure the other isn’t looking, baffled by his strange friend that he can’t seem to let go of. A pit lays heavy in his stomach. But Castiel doesn’t mention his strange plight to the bar, nor does he provide any further details about his new job. And Dean doesn’t ask; not in class, not at lunch, and not when they meet back up at the front of the school. It’s a secret, Dean knows, that would have to be his to keep. Even if he doesn't understand why.. 

Castiel mumbles something about being tired when they walk home from school that day. With Sam at one of his after-school clubs, the two walk back alone. Dean grunts a quick hello to his father as the two of them climb the stairs. He’s aware of his father’s eyes watching them before Dean shuts the bedroom door behind them.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “You look it. How did, um, your job go last night?”

Dean feels like an asshole for asking. But he can’t just _not_ bring it up.

Castiel rubs his eyes with a yawn. “Fine,” he says simply. “I got the job. I was up late. It’s why I’m so tired.”

“Wow. Well, congrats, man. That’s...that’s great. You earned it.”

Castiel smiles at him but says nothing more. Not that Dean is surprised. Castiel and his secrets -- it’s something Dean isn’t sure he’d ever get used to. He watches as Castiel’s eye droop with heavy sleep, and just like that, he seems years younger; a child, rather than the mysterious teenager who walks off into the night to play the piano for old men in strange, seedy bars. It makes Dean’s chest ache. All at once, he feels a protective urge wash over him that he hadn’t felt before.

“My bed’s right there,” Dean suggests. “Take a nap or something.”

Castiel gives him a quizzical look. “Sleeping in your bed...that isn’t...strange?”

Dean lets out a short laugh.

“Why would it be? It’s just a bed.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. The puzzled expression doesn’t leave his face. But, he seems to silently agree with Dean after a long moment of thought. He pushes himself up from where he’d been sitting on the floor and moves to sit on Dean’s bed.

“Your bed is quite comfortable,” he remarks. But he doesn’t lay down. He sits on the edge, his eyes watching Dean curiously. Dean looks away and shrugs. He’s suddenly worried Castiel could read his mind and figure out that Dean had followed him last night.

“I guess. I really don’t mind if you take a nap, dude. I was just gonna try and figure out Ms. Ellen’s science homework or whatever.”

“It’s fairly easy work, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “If you start turning into my brother, I swear I’m gonna jump off a building.”

“I think you’re being dramatic.”

When Dean looks at him again, Castiel is laying down with his head on the pillow, his eyes shut as he adjusts his body to a comfortable position. Idly, Castiel pulls the covers up to his shoulders. Curled up on the bed, Dean can’t help but smile. His friend looks peaceful like this. Almost childlike. It’s barely a few minutes before he hears the sounds of his friend’s gentle, easy breathing, signaling he’d fallen asleep. When he’s sure Castiel won’t wake up again, Dean lounges against the side of the bed, close enough to feel the boy’s light breathing dust across his hair. Dean feels at peace. Content, even. His own, confusing thoughts nothing but a lingering trickle in his mind

Well into the day, he stays in his room, reading through magazines, tinkering with the broken TV remote, and even looking at his homework — once. It’s maybe two or three hours when Castiel wakes up again. Dean looks up from his magazine, watching Castiel's bright, blue eyes go from sleepy, to confused, to alarmed. Dean stumbles back as Castiel flies out of his bed, standing upright and looking around the room with a wild expression.

"What time is it?" he demands.

Dean blinks in surprise. "It's, uh...5:21?"

Castiel shakes his head. He grabs his shoes, silent and stiff as he pulls them on his feet. Concerned, Dean sets his magazine down on the floor with a puzzled frown.

"Cas, what's up?"

Castiel shakes his head vehemently. 

"Michael...or my father...will be upset that I'm late for dinner. I must leave. Thank you, Dean — "

Startled, Dean watches as Castiel lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. The intensity of the gesture steals the breath right from Dean's lungs.

"N-no problem, Cas'. Is everything okay? D'you need me to —"

"I will walk home alone," Castiel says quickly. He snags his backpack off the floor, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure, see you th —"

But Castiel is already slamming the bedroom door behind him. Dazed, Dean wanders to his bedroom window and watches Castiel stalk across the yard before disappearing inside his own home. His abrupt departure from the house leaves a cold pit in Dean's stomach. Sneaking out at night for some weird job, freaking out over not being able to go home on time…

Dean doesn't want to think about it. But he isn't sure he has much of a choice. Castiel is in danger, one way or another. And though Dean barely understands it himself, the house across the lawn with its red shutters and plain, wooden doors leaves him feeling sick. Stuffed. Trapped, even though the house isn't his own.

If Dean himself feels trapped, suffocated by this small town and its small opportunities, he can only imagine how a genius like Castiel must feel. A quiet, silent genius on the piano, who plays at night when the sun goes down on an old instrument that’s out of tune. Spinning melodies out of the very air itself, making music like a seasoned artist. A fiercely kind boy with a heart of dark, looming secrets. Someone who Dean would go to the ends of the earth to protect, should he be given permission to do so. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5  
** **November 1976**

\--

The question comes out of nowhere, really. Dean would never admit to himself, let alone another person, that he had spent an inordinate amount of time wrestling with the thought that Castiel had never kissed another person before.

“So you’re telling me you’ve _never_ kissed somebody? Ever?”

Castiel looks up at Dean with a puzzled expression from across the kitchen table. They usually spend their time in Dean’s bedroom. But today, with Dean and Sam’s father taking an early shift at the garage and Sam at one of his afternoon clubs, Dean and Castiel have the house to themselves. Dean hates that it’s such a relief that he doesn’t have to worry about his father’s quiet glares or suspicious looks in Castiel’s direction - but it makes a world of difference. Still, Dean keeps glancing out the window, worried for the moment he would see his father pull into the driveway. 

Finally, Castiel answers his question, pulling Dean away from his lingering anxiety. 

“No, Dean. I have not.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Really? Nobody?”

“No.”

“Like...not even Meg...or Ana? I see you looking at them sometimes.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I look at them because they look at _me._ I think they make fun of me. And, as you’ve said before, Meg is scary. I don’t want to kiss her.”

That makes Dean laugh. “You said she was pretty,” he points out.

“Yes, well, you asked!” Castiel huffs. Dean can see a blush spreading across Castiel’s face. With a smirk, Dean gets up and grabs a beer from the fridge, popping it open and taking a long sip from it. It tastes like garbage, but it’s still _beer._ With alcohol. His dad _might_ kill him if he found out - but it was just one.

“Here. Drink this.”

Castiel pulls a face. “I don’t want this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve tasted it before and it tastes disgusting. My...my father drinks these quite often.”

“Wait, you’ve drunk _beer_ before?” Dean asks, a little surprised. Castiel shrugs.

Dean shakes his head dismissively before Castiel can say anything else. “Look, my dad does, too. You don’t drink it because it tastes good. You drink it to get buzzed.”

Castiel wrinkles up his nose. “Getting ‘buzzed’ does not seem worth it to drink whatever this garbage is.”

“It’s _beer,_ Cas’.”

“I know what it is. As I’ve said, I’ve had it before.”

Dean laughs again, taking a reluctant sip. “You don’t seem the type to drink beer, I guess.”

Castiel suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I am not. But where I work, they...drink it quite often.”

A chill passes down Dean’s spine. It had been almost a month since the night Dean had followed Castiel to the bar — his new job. Dean had kept his knowledge of it a secret from Castiel and anybody else. On the days at school that followed Castiel’s night shifts, Castiel was always exhausted during school, hardly able to pay attention in class from fighting off sleep. Dean would ask about him, casually, of course - but Castiel would always insist that he was okay. Soon, Dean stopped asking. And Castiel never brought it up, until now.

“Where did you say you worked again?” Dean asks, feigning innocence. Castiel looks past him at the wall.

“I play music for people. They get rowdy and demand other songs, sometimes.”

Dean nods carefully. But before he can press further, Castiel changes the subject. Like he always does just when Dean is beginning to _finally_ think he might have a chance at understanding him better.

“Dean, we should play some music from your record player. Can you play the Beatles album again? Abbey Road?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, sure — but you’re not getting off the topic of not having kissed anyone. I still find that hard to believe.”

“Dean, I am sixteen years old. I am not the only person in high school who has never kissed someone.”

Dean shrugs, standing up and grabbing his beer to fetch his record player from upstairs as Castiel follows him quietly. He grabs his record player, his _Abbey Road_ album, and hauls it downstairs, glancing out the window for any sign of his father. It shouldn’t be a big deal - two friends listening to music after school _isn’t_ a big deal. But it does nothing to ease the tension building in Dean’s chest.

“Why do you keep glancing out the window, Dean?”

Dean feels his stomach twist into a knot. Castiel really doesn’t miss anything.

“Because I’m looking to see if my dad is home or not.”

“You don’t like your father very much.”

Dean glares at him as he puts the record in the player. As the music begins to hum, Dean pulls out his backpack to uselessly look at his science “notes” - mostly Led Zeppelin quotes and a single formula from class that Dean has no idea what it’s supposed to mean.

“My dad’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

He’s aware of Castiel’s eyes on him, but he says nothing more. He stares at his notebook instead, grateful for when the music begins to soothe Dean’s nerves. It seems to please Castiel, too. He smiles and bobs his head, his eyes glazing off into another world entirely. Dean watches him for a moment, knowing Castiel would stay like that until Dean taps him on the shoulder or says something loud enough to pull him back into the real world. Which is why, when Castiel does speak on his own, Dean nearly jumps in his seat.

“I have not kissed anybody because the idea of it has seemed very unpleasant to do it with someone that I do not like,” Castiel says quietly.

“Jesus, Cas’ you scared me. Anyway... that’s kinda the point,” Dean reminds him. “You’re not supposed to kiss people you don’t like.”

“Who have you kissed?”

Dean shrugs, biting the tip of his pencil absently.

“Lots of people. They were all people from one of my old schools, though. There was this girl named Cassie. She was _super_ hot. We kissed a few times. And there was another girl when I was in seventh grade…”

Castiel seems perplexed. “Isn’t seventh grade a little bit young to be kissing other people?”

“Not really, no. I dunno.”

Castiel frowns, his mouth worrying into a puzzling line. 

“Cas’,” Dean huffs, “It’s really not...a big deal. You just do it when you want to, and when the other person wants to. No real rhyme or reason to it, most of the time.”

“How do you know when the other person wants to? Do they tell you?”

Dean thinks about it for a moment.

“Sometimes. But not always. Sometimes you just...look at a person. And they look at you. Maybe you’ve held hands with them, gone on dates, spent time together...they make you laugh a lot. And you both kinda get closer, and closer until…”

Dean claps his hand together. “ _Boom_. Kiss happens.”

Castiel nods. He still seems puzzled. But he appears to understand better than before. Affectionately, Dean pats him on the shoulder as a soft tendril of longing creeps into his chest. He’s always suspected that Castiel is...not quite comfortable in this world. God only knows that his friend is about as strange as they come. But Dean wants him to be happy. Romantically and otherwise. Other than Sam, Dean’s never felt such a strong urge for another’s happiness like he has for his friend. 

Dean clears his throat. “You’ll have your first kiss, Cas’. Don’t worry. Just, uh, don’t rush it, yeah? Kissing sucks if you don’t like the person. Or if they don’t like you.”

Castiel smiles a little. Sitting on the floor with his trenchcoat pooled in his lap, he seems so small. So unlike the boy who pulled a knife on a group of bullies months ago.

“Perhaps I will.”

Castiel sighs before speaking again.

“My brother brings home women sometimes. Michael. I’ve tried to ask him about this sort of thing but...he always shuts me down.”

Dean scowls. “Well, he’s kind of a jerk anyway, isn’t he?”

Castiel casts his gaze down to the floor. His finger finds a loose piece of the brown carpet and he absently pulls it through his fingers.

“Yes. Sometimes. It’s just hard to...not ask things when he gets...loud with them.”

Dean blinks at him. It takes a moment before he understands what Castiel means.

“Oh. Ew.” He huffs a laugh. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that, man. That’s just gross.”

“Yes, I’d prefer not to be aware of my brother’s sexual adventures.”

That makes Dean laugh hard. He drops his notebook, clutching his stomach as his shoulders shake with laughter. Castiel blushes, but even he joins in with Dean’s laughter after a moment, too.

“Was, um, ‘sexual adventures’ perhaps not the right word?”

Dean goes to answer, but he can only laugh again. Tears spring at the edges of his eyes as he gasps for breath, and Castiel, as embarrassed as he is, clearly seems to be enjoying laughing at himself, too. Dean doesn’t even hear the front door open and shut or the familiar sound of his father’s footsteps thudding into the kitchen until they’re feet from him. He stops laughing at once, clearing his throat as he nervously peers around the couch. The light, laughter in his chest fades, leaving him taught and on-edge as quickly as the tension had left.

“Oh, um, hey dad.”

It dawns on Dean that his dad never really talked to Castiel in the months that they’d been hanging out, despite his comments about Dean’s friend being ‘queer’ when Castiel wasn’t around.

“Hey, Dean. Hello, Castiel.”

“Hello,” Castiel says lowly. He gives John Winchester a small wave.

With a heavy overcoat draped over his shoulders, John stops just in front of the couch and peers at the two with a raised eyebrow. He’s due for a shave — Dean knows that his father’s lack of hygiene typically indicates that he’s been busy. Or drinking more than usual.

“Dean, I’m going to need your help with the car.” 

Dean nods quickly. “Yessir.”

“I can leave if you have other duties to attend to,” Castiel says, standing up abruptly. “It was nice spending time with you, Dean. And seeing you, Mr. Winchester.”

Castiel’s rigid formality makes Dean grit his teeth. He’s grown used to it, and lately, it hardly stands out to him anymore — but in front of his dad, it sends a pit of anxiety into his gut.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, Cas’,” he says quickly. Castiel tilts his head, puzzled at Dean’s quick response. Dean feels guilt settle into his stomach, but he shoves it aside.

“See you tomorrow.” Dean doesn’t look at him as he waves him off. Without another word, Castiel grabs his coat and hurries out of the house, leaving Dean and John Winchester alone in the living room. John shakes his head when he hears the front door slam.

“He’s weird,” John points out. Dean pulls the pin off his record player with a shrug.

“Yeah, that’s just him, though. He’s fine.”

John frowns again. “He’s queer as a wingless bird, Dean. I’m surprised you of all people can’t see that.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Dad — “

John raises his hand, cutting him off. “Dean, I’m just looking out for you. You should know how those types get. It’s not always a comfortable situation. And it starts young. It always does.”

_The only one who’s ever made me feel uncomfortable around Castiel is you._

The thought enters Dean’s mind quickly, a lightning strike that jolts him with guilt and a shame he can’t quite place. He tries to snuff it out, but the truth of the matter is agonizingly clear; Castiel has never made him uncomfortable, no matter how strange, no matter how _odd_ he may act. Castiel is a breath of fresh air, a home in a place Dean could never find by himself. Sudden anger boils in Dean’s gut, the urge to lash out at his father a bittersweet temptation on the back of his tongue. But Dean can only nod along, averting his eyes from his father’s harsh gaze. He knows better than to disagree with John Winchester. He’s not like Sam; the brunt of his father’s rage stings in ways that Sam seems to bear with pride well beyond his years. Dean would never understand how, or why. Perhaps Dean is just a coward.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says finally. His voice is faint, nearly a whisper. “I understand.”

“I just worry about you, y’know? Ever since your mom died and we lost our old house, things have been hard. For you, for Sammy, for me...I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Dean. Not like this. That’s all. You can find better friends than that kid. Just ‘cause he’s next door don’t mean you need to hang around him all the time.”

His father’s words sting, that much Dean can’t deny. Despite it, Dean is relieved that his father isn’t angry. His father’s anger is a looming, desolate thunderstorm for Dean; something as inescapable as it is inevitable. Any time his father _isn’t_ angry is a relief for Dean.

“Yes, sir. I understand that.”

John sighs. “Good. Now, I’m gonna go get changed, and then I want you outside to help me look at the transmission. Your brother’s going to make dinner tonight.”

Dean nods. Wringing his fingers, he shoves his hands into his jean pockets and goes upstairs to change into a messier shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He knows, deep in his chest, that his father is wrong about Castiel. He doesn’t _want_ to forget about him...and even if he did, Dean isn’t so sure that he could. Castiel isn’t “queer” - and even if he was, what does it matter…? It can’t be that big of a deal, can it?

When Sam gets home, he and their father argue about cooking dinner. Sam insists he’s done it the past five nights. Dean tries to keep his voice low as he snaps at them both to just leave it alone. It isn’t until Dean yells at Sam to cook the damn food that he finally does it, shooting both him and their father a dirty look. Sam wasn’t wrong - he had “cooked” the past few nights, which was mostly putting pasta on a stove or trying to heat up microwavable food. But it was a job that took time, especially when Sam had extra homework he needed to finish.

After an hour, Dean turns in for the night and showers, letting the oil wash off his hands. He flops into bed, sighing in the dim light of his bedroom as Sam looks up from his comic book.

“Dad’s gonna get me started working at the car shop next week,” Dean murmurs. Sam winces.

“That seems like a gross job.”

He shrugs, grabbing his baseball from the floor and tossing it up into the air. “It’s a job, at least.”

“Dad’s gonna pay you?”

Dean shrugs.

“Dean, if it’s a job, you should get paid.”

He turns to his brother with a frown.

“The payment will be keeping this house,” Dean points out. “It’s not like all this is free. Dad got lucky with being able to set up shop here, and there are no other big dealerships in town to run us out. He’s already got customers lined up for the next few months, but he needs to be able to keep up with everything. And I’ve gotta help.”

Sam nods, sitting up in bed. He sets his comic book aside. “I guess...I still think you should get _some_ money for it, though.”

“It’s whatever. A job’s a job. You do it and you don’t complain.” He passes a glare towards Sam, who pointedly ignores him.

As the two of them sit in silence, Dean listens to the familiar sound of the out-of-tune piano waft through the window. He smiles, breathing a laugh as Sam hears it, too.

“There’s Cas’ on that piano again,” he murmurs. “He’s so good at it. He’ll be out of this town before any of us, playing piano somewhere fancy…”

“Why would he want to leave?” Sam asks, genuinely puzzled.

Dean shoots his brother a look. “Have you _seen_ this place? It’s so small. I feel like I’m choking on suburbia every time I walk out the door. There’s nothing to do here...and everyone just does the same thing. Again and again.”

“Yeah, but it’s nice,” Sam points out. “It’s a house. We never lived in a house before. Not since mom.”

Dean sighs, tossing his ball up into the air and catching it with a groan. He doesn’t know what to say. He should be grateful. He knows that. And there are certainly a lot of things that Dean doesn’t miss about being on the road. He didn’t like being homeless, not knowing when they would eat next, not knowing when he could feed Sam. But it’s hard to make Sam understand that this home feels too small for Dean’s skin. Dean is pretty sure he won’t even be finishing his last few years of high school. School weighs him down. He can barely get through it most days, and when they were spending all their time on the road, Dean had been more preoccupied with helping his father with odd jobs or keeping food on the table for Sam. He wishes he knew how to put into words how he feels about this place; the way Dean can’t seem to wear it on his skin the way everybody else can. The way that he’s relieved he has stability, but craves the freedom all the same.

“I know,” Dean says finally. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going anywhere, anyway. Someone’s gotta take care of you, right?”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean, I told you, I can take care of myself.”

“Sure,” Dean grunts. He sits on his bed, pulling on a t-shirt.

“I can!” Sam insists. “I just...I wish I could…”

Dean eyes him. “Wish you could what?”

Sam shrugs his shoulders. He turns his back to Dean, hurriedly dressing for bed with an impatient huff of breath.

“Dude,” Dean groans quietly. “C’mon.”

Sam sighs. “I just wish I didn’t have to live with dad. Is that selfish? We live in a house, right? Dad did all this for us...but he just seems like he hates me all the time.”

A deep, instinctual urge prompts Dean to defend his father as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. The urge to scold Sam for thinking such a thing, to brush him off and call him crazy. But something else, something heavy, nags at Dean until he can’t ignore it anymore.

“He doesn't hate you,” Dean sighs. “He can be...a little much. But, man, you can’t just fight with him all the time. You know that’s gonna make it worse.”

“So what, I’m supposed to just let him treat me like crap?” Sam demands. “That’s stupid, Dean, and you know it.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you!” Dean snaps. “I can’t make dad stop yelling, okay? But maybe if you just shut up and did what he asked you to do, things would be easier around here.”

Dean immediately regrets what he said, but he doesn’t take them back. He bows his head as Sam gives him a low, heavy look. In the tense, heavy silence, the sound of the piano drifts through the room, faint and barely audible. Sam, irritated, tells Dean that he’s going to bed.

The two lay back on the bed in silence, listening to the sound of the piano until it comes to a quiet close. It’s a song Dean doesn’t recognize; dips in the chords he doesn’t recognize, a melody lost to his ears. He drifts off to sleep quickly that night, and in his dreams, he sees himself watching a stranger play the piano; a stranger he knows better than the back of his hand. Guilt still rests heavy in his stomach from his argument with Sam. He doesn’t like his father’s behavior any more than Sam does -- but the difference between them is that Dean knows how to deal with it. 

Or, maybe, he’s always just been too afraid to. He tries not to think about it as he drifts off to sleep.

Somehow, Dean suspects Castiel wouldn’t be at school the next day after his late return home the night before. He doesn’t want to think about how he knows. But he knows. He doesn’t even bother to wait for him outside his house, much to Sam’s protest. The bruises, the way Castiel seems so _distant_ when he dares to do something to disobey his brother or his father whom Dean has never even seen. It hurts like a rock in Dean’s stomach.

“Cas’ isn’t feeling well,” Dean murmurs when Sam insists that they wait for their friend. Even Sam has grown to like Castiel, though nothing could penetrate the bond the two older boys share. Their argument from the night before goes unspoken, but yet again, guilt bubbles up in Dean’s stomach, just like before. He knows that he should be doing something. He _knows_ Castiel must be hurt. He turns back to watch the house with heavy eyes and a sense that he simply can’t stop failing the people he cares for the most.

It’s why Dean is surprised when Castiel _does_ show up at school later that day. Exhausted, with a distant, dazed look in his eye, Dean spots Castiel stumbling into the school through the crowded halls just before the sixth-period bell rings. He feels lighter at the sight of him, though the absence in Castiel’s eyes haunts Dean as nothing else can. At the end of the day, when Dean has a headache from listening to the teachers talk in school, he hurries down the hallway to meet up with his friend by the doors. As the students clear out, a familiar sight catches Dean’s eye; the notorious bullies, Dick, Az, and Arry, shoving a kid Dean shares science with up against the lockers. Some kid named Benny with a quiet, kind, strange sense of humor that has always made Dean chuckle under his breath. 

“I would not approach them if I were you, Dean,” a voice behind him says quietly. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Dean nearly jumps a foot in the air. Startled, he whirls around to face Castiel’s steely, blue eyes, heavy with sleeplessness.

“Wh-hey, Cas’,” he stammers. “I haven’t seen you all day. What are you — “

“Dean. We should go.”

Dean turns to look at the boys again. With no teachers in sight, the three boys are laughing maniacally as they smack Benny’s notebooks out of his hands.

“Those jerks are beating on that kid,” Dean says quickly. “We should do something about it.”

Castiel looks around warily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Dean stares at him in disbelief. “Dude. You pulled a _knife_ on those freaks when they were pounding on me. I barely know him, but Benny isn’t a bad guy. We should help him. It’s the right freaking thing to do.”

Castiel bites his lip. Frustrated, Dean scowls at him before turning away and marching up to the other boys. He’s grown really, really sick of sitting by; it was time to _do_ _something_ when someone is in pain.

“Hey, assholes,” Dean snarls. He grabs Az and drags him away from Benny in a display of strength that surprises even himself. “Leave the guy alone.”

That draws a chuckle from the other boys. Briefly, Dean catches Benny’s grateful eyes before Dick grabs Dean by the front of the shirt and jerks him closer. Dean glares at him, _daring_ him to hit him, even though he’d have nothing to defend himself with.

“Where’s your boyfriend, Dean-o?” he taunts. Arry kicks at Dean’s shins, ushering a pained growl from Dean’s throat. This may have been, no, _certainly was_ a bad idea, but Dean doesn’t care. He can take a beating. He can’t take letting these three boys win.

“Leave him alone!” Benny snaps. That makes the three boys laugh. Dean tries to pull away from Dick’s grip to no avail. Rearing back, Dick punches Dean in the mouth, sending his head rocking back. Blood spills into his mouth as a biting pain shoots up his jaw, numbing his entire face. Despite himself, Dean spits the mouthful of blood right into the boy’s face with a short laugh.

“You punch like a freaking girl,” Dean laughs weakly. Stars dance at the edge of his vision. But the comment earns him another blow to the eye. His vision blurs, and he barely makes out Castiel stalking over to the group of them. A glint of silver catches his eye.

“Leave him alone or I will cut your face,” Castiel growls. The boys draw back. Dick lets go of Dean’s shirt, shoving him away. He nearly topples over, but Benny catches his arm before he can fall. He pulls Dean away from the group and back against the lockers.

“I think the queer boy’s bluffing,” one of them taunts. Dean jerks forward, every nerve in his body surging to protect Castiel, but Benny pulls him back with strong hands on his arms.

“Hey, no, they’ll kill you,” Benny warns. Dean shakes his head as the boy’s close in on Castiel.

“No, _no,_ ” he growls. He tries to jerk away from Benny’s firm grip again, but the boy is too strong. Built bulkier than Dean, Benny doesn’t look like the type who gets easily picked on. 

“He’s my friend,” Dean protests weakly. He still can’t see properly out of his eye.

“I know, dumbass,” Benny growls. There’s little malice in his voice. “But you’re bleeding.”

Benny digs through his pockets, pulling out a clean tissue and pressing it gently against Dean’s face. Blood soaks the tissue almost immediately; in his panic, Dean hadn’t realized how badly he’d been hurt. The glint of the knife shines in Castiel’s hand again as Dean looks up, watching as he glares at the three of them like an avenging angel. Az grabs him by the shirt. Castiel slashes the blade through the air, slicing through the skin of Az’s hand. He jerks back with a howl of pain as bright blood gushes from his cut hand, spilling onto the hallway floor. Eyes bulging, Dean watches as Castiel’s eyes seem to _glow_ with pure, unbridled rage. He points the knife at Dick who tumbles back, looking at the other three. Without another word, the boys turn and run, Az clutching his hand as a trail of blood drips from his hand and onto the floor. Dean wrenches himself from Benny’s grip, grabbing Castiel just before he moves to chase after them.

“Cas’...Castiel…” Dean breathes. Rigid and unmoving, Castiel stares at the small drips of blood on the floor, completely silent. Ragged, uneven breaths heave out of his chest. Dean squeezes his shoulder, willing Castiel to relax. The touch seems to calm him ever so slightly; bit by bit, the muscles in his body seem to unclench, and his breathing grows softer. Dean’s heart pounds in his chest as he stares at him in awe.

“Cas’,” he says gently. “Let’s go before we get in trouble.”

He glances at Benny who seems just as eager to leave. Benny follows the boys out as Dean keeps a firm hand on Castiel, who remains completely silent. They hurry out of the school and half-jog down the sidewalk, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the school as possible. The biting, winter air stings Dean’s face, ushering Benny to push another clean tissue up against his lip. The walk home seems impossibly far; now that the adrenaline’s wore off, Dean can feel the pain shoot through his entire jaw. Every gust of wind feels like knives raking down his face as they walk, huddled close together. Castiel doesn’t say a word the entire time; like a soldier staring down the battlefield, he marches ahead of Dean and Benny, quiet and rigid as an automaton. It takes almost five minutes to urge Castiel to put the knife back into his coat pocket where it was clenched tightly in his fist.

“Oh my goodness...are you okay?”

Jodi’s voice jolts the three boys to attention; Dean hadn’t realized they were passing her house. She stands at the edge of her yard, her mail in-hand, giving her a full eyeful of Dean’s bloody face. Her kind eyes are wide with worry. They look at once another without speaking before Jodi shakes her head.

“Save it. Come inside. Let me take a look at that before it gets dirty.”

Benny gives Dean a small smile. “I have to get home. You should let her take a look at you, Dean.”

Dean sighs, glancing at Castiel. Still silent.

“Alright,” Dean murmurs. “You’ll be alright?”

Benny huffs a laugh. “I’m not the one with a bleeding face, Dean,” he points out. “I’ll be fine. You saved my skin back there. You too, Castiel. I owe you one, brother.”

Castiel gives a faint nod but says nothing more.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean murmurs. Waving them both goodbye, Dean watches Benny take off down the street. Castiel’s gaze lingers on the boy, watching him go.

Jodi places a hand on her hip. “C’mon, Dean. You’re welcome inside too, Castiel. It’s been a while since I’ve seen your face around here.” 

Her voice is firm but gentle, and impossible to say ‘no’ to. Truthfully, Dean doesn’t know how he’d have made it home otherwise; the biting, winter wind only amplifies the searing pain in his face. Quickly, the two boys follow her up the path and into her house. She leads them into the kitchen, gesturing for them both to sit down as she grabs peroxide, bandages, and a wet cloth from underneath her sink.

“Should I even ask how this happened?” 

Dean and Castiel look at one another.

“It was, uh...a fight,” Dean admits. “That kid back there -Benny - was in trouble. Three guys who are total assholes. I stepped in and they roughed me up. Cas’ scared ‘em off.”

Jodi raises an eyebrow in surprise as she glances at Castiel; Castiel, a small, quiet boy who wears a shining music pendant around his neck draped over a dirty, oversized trench coat.

 _Yeah, I can’t believe it either,_ Dean thinks to himself. He doesn’t mention the knife. Best not to bring that up.

“It would not have come to a fight had Dean simply walked away.”

“Yeah, and then that kid would have been bleeding out his face instead of me,” Dean snaps angrily. Castiel glares at him.

“Exactly my point, Dean,” Castiel says lowly. Jodi shakes her head.

“Dean, that was brave of you for stepping in, but —”

“No,” Castiel interrupts. “It was stupid.”

Jodi sighs. She kneels in front of Dean, gently dabbing the wet cloth over his bloody face as Castiel watches. His hand twitches, but he says nothing more. Dean hisses in pain but forces himself to stay still as she gently cleans his face.

“You boys are good kids,” Jodi murmurs. “It looks like everyone made a tough decision today.”

“What I did was not difficult,” Castiel says shortly. “I would do it again if they hurt — “

Castiel clamps his mouth shut. Dazed, Dean blinks, trying to understand what Castiel is trying to say. He doesn’t understand him any more than he understood him the first day that he met him. Any more than he understands Castiel disappearing at night to work a strange job at a dive bar downtown.

“You care about one another. That’s more than a lot of people can say about their friends these days,” Jodi remarks. “And sometimes, people do crazy things for those they care about.”

“Dean didn’t even know Benny.”

“ _Cas’._ Give it a rest,” Dean snaps. “I did what I did. We’re all alive. End of freaking story.”

He winces in pain as Jodi soaks the other side of the cloth in peroxide and begins to clean his wound. There’s a tense silence as Castiel glares at the two of them.

“If you boys are gonna start fighting, I’ll toss you out quicker than I let you in,” Jodi warns, sensing the tension. Castiel stands abruptly, looking flushed.

“My father is expecting me. Goodbye, Jodi. Goodbye, Dean.”

Without a word, he stands up stiffly and marches out the door. It slams behind him, leaving Jodi shaking her head.

“He does that a lot,” Dean grunts.

Jodi shakes her head, breathing a slow sigh. “Well, that boy has some issues. I know that much.”

“No, no, he’s fine,” Dean says quickly. “He just...I dunno what got into him today.” He jerks in pain when she dabs the peroxide on his wound again.

“He’s a strange boy,” Jodi agrees. “But I’m glad you two are friends. How has he been holding up?”

Dean sighs. “Um...fine, I think. I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about stuff at home and spends a lot of time at my place. His family is…”

“They’re a bunch of white-trash assholes,” she growls under her breath. The vulgar language surprises Dean. He can’t help but laugh as she gives him a small smile. When his face is mostly clean, she sets the cloth down and begins carefully bandaging his wounds.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees warily. “They are. His brother is...I dunno.” Jodi shakes her head, her expression quickly darkening again.

“His brother is a jerk,” she says shortly. “His father is a psychopath. I’m surprised, living next door, you haven’t heard them bring the whole house down with their fighting. Their little boy, Gabriel, must be so scared. Castiel loves that boy, but I think he fears for him, too.”

Dean wishes he knew what to say. He hates being helpless — and he hates his friend being helpless even more.

“Like I told you before,” she says, “People get stuck here. They get stuck...and they just don’t know what the hell to do with themselves. Castiel is a good kid. Someone like you being his friend is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. If he stuck up for you today, he’ll keep doing it. I don’t think he’d ever let anyone hurt you, or ever let anyone who would hurt you go unpunished.”

Dean shivers where he sits. He knows that she’s right. He had seen it today, and he’d seen it before. Maybe that’s why Castiel was so angry with him for putting himself in harm’s way to stick up for Benny. Pleased with her handiwork, Jodi leans back to look at him.

“That’ll sting for a little bit. But you probably won’t need stitches. And it won’t get infected.” 

Dean brushes his hand down the bandage with a quiet sigh.

“Thank you, Jodi. Seriously. I...my dad would’ve just screamed at me and told me to fix it myself.” Dean laughs bitterly. 

Patting his leg, Jodi gives him a small smile. “If you ever need anything else, my door is always open, kid,” she says. He nods, rubbing the back of his head. Dean thanks her again before she shoos him out, telling him to get home and do his homework that Dean already knows he isn’t going to do. He walks home alone, quickly, grateful that he’s beaten his dad back to the house when he finally pushes through the door. Dean would start heavily working in the shop next week, and he’s grateful he’d be able to hide his injury from his dad, at least for tonight. When Sam asks about it later, he says he got into a fight and doesn’t say anything more.

Just as he’s about to drift off into a fitful sleep, he hears something soft collide against his window, jolting him awake. He rubs the back of his head, staring at the closed curtains until something else taps against it. Dean pulls back the curtains and jerks the window open, shivering when the cool air hits his bare chest. He glances down at a figure looming below his window in the dark, flashlight in-hand.

“I’m sorry for today, Dean,” the figure says. _Cas’_. Dean sputters for an answer.

“Cas'? What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I wanted to apologize for my stiff behavior. I have to leave now — but I just wanted to say that I am sorry. And that I will see you tomorrow.”

And with that, Castiel turns and hurries off into the night, leaving Dean dazed as he watches his friend hurry away. The moon covers the quiet town in an ethereal glow, and a chilly wind blows through the leaves, stirring the coattails of Castiel’s trenchcoat behind him. Dean watches him leave in astonishment, wanting nothing more than to reach out to him, to follow him into the dark and learn the unearthly secrets his friend holds so close to his own heart.

But Dean doesn’t do any of that. He just watches Castiel disappear into the night and thinks about how lost he would be if Castiel wasn’t his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**  
December 1976

\--

Dean misses the summertime. He misses the endless crawl of the afternoon sun creeping over the sleepy town, the way that the dewy morning grass would dry in the sun, perfect for slumping across the lawn and feeling the sunshine on his face. Days that would blink on by like fireflies, days that were endless as the bubbling pond curving ‘round the woods that lined the endless midwestern roads. Dean even misses the way the flora would push through the dirt, stretching their open petals to the sun. Everything feels alive during the summer, and even the family’s worst days on the road could brighten themselves just with the warmth Dean would feel on his face, gazing out the open window of his father’s ‘67 Chevy, aching for the days he and Sam could take a walk down to the ice cream shop if they had the means to drum up some spare change. 

But now it’s cold. It’s cold all the time. It bites into Dean’s skin when he’s working at his father’s car garage, his fingers quickly growing numb when not directly preoccupied with work. Even still, the long, chilly hours are a blissful distraction for Dean, even if it means he spends less time with Castiel. He likes working with his hands. He’s _good_ at working with his hands. In John’s rare moments of letting his gruff exterior come down a notch, Dean’s father even remarks that he might be better than his old man, someday. With the steady business of the garage providing a small but comfortable income for the family of three, John has no qualms talking to Dean like he would be taking over the garage when John is too old to work it himself anymore.

 _You know your brother won’t do it,_ John tells him, day after day. _That boy doesn’t have a single sense of family in that belligerent head of his. He don’t have the responsibility to manage a business like this and help it grow._

Dean disagrees. But he doesn’t tell his father that.

The garage is relatively small, but organized to a fault; it has space for two cars on-deck, waiting to be repaired or inspected, with one on the worker’s line. John’s tools remain in a neat array on the wall, with smaller parts placed neatly in the black, industrial toolboxes stored near the back or in his office. Order forms for spare parts remain tucked neatly in the filing cabinet. The whole space smells like oil and metal, a smell Dean had grown quickly used to.

It’s the way things are to be; this work, this small town, this life. Dean simply isn’t like Sam. He isn’t good at school. He doesn’t have big things headed his way. He has no real aspirations other than to get by. Working right here his whole life is about the best thing that could happen to him. So he accepts it. When the time comes, it would be his. And that would be that. People like Sam and Castiel...they would leave this place. Castiel would play the piano for a living in some big city, make a name for himself. Sam would go to college, law school, maybe. Something fancy. But Dean would stay behind. He doesn’t curse them for it. If anything, he’s happy they’re the type of people who will find their way someplace else. It’s simply how things are supposed to be, and Dean knows it all too well.

Sometimes, Dean comes home from the garage late, tired and dirty, with just enough in him to choke down a sandwich and shower before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he'd come home early and hope Castiel wanted to hang out. Most days, he'd walk to the garage with Castiel in tow. On the days his father wasn't working, Castiel would linger and simply watch Dean work, hardly speaking a word as to not distract Dean from his task. Dean didn't mind, so long as Castiel's warm breath didn't brush against his neck when he was particularly curious about something Dean was working on. It distracted him. But, Dean is grateful for the other's company when he has it. 

It became an unspoken agreement between the two to keep their heads down when Dean's father was around. He never told Castiel about his father's comments, but he never had to. Castiel could sense Dean's aching discomfort around his dad, always more in-tune with Dean's emotions than he ever was to his own. And so, it was a dance. When they're with Sam, they are friends. When they're with Dean's father, they're acquaintances. When they're alone...they're good friends. They talk and laugh about school. Sometimes they even talked about their families.

Over time, Dean begins to learn more about his elusive friend. He knows that Castiel and his younger brother Gabriel are close. Gabriel, who could sometimes be seen with his tiny face pressed against the window, waiting for Castiel to come home after school. Castiel tells Dean that, sometimes, Gabriel will sit in Castiel’s bedroom and listen to him play the piano at night and fall asleep right on the floor. 

On the last day of school before Christmas break, Dean is finishing a shift at the garage when Castiel comes to visit him with his little brother bundled in a dark, green jacket and hat, trotting along loyally beside his older brother. He hasn’t seen Gabriel often; occasionally, he’d wave at the kid if he walked Castiel right home after school, his little face always pressed up against the window in wait for his older brother.

“Hello, Dean,” his friend greets him. Always one for formalities. Dean huffs a greeting, grinning at Gabriel standing bundled up against the cold by his brother’s side.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean greets the younger brother. He gives Castiel a quick ‘hey,’ quickly slamming the hood of the white chevy he’d been fixing the brakes on for the past half hour. Gabriel waves at him with a gloved hand.

“S’cold,” Gabriel mumbles. Dean laughs. With a thin parka and a tight pair of gloves over his hand, Dean had actually felt warm with exertion, hardly aware of the biting, mid-December air.

“Got that right. What’s up? I was just finishing up. Didn’t think you two would come by today.”

“Well, I wanted to ask if you’d like to come back home with us,” Castiel says pleasantly. Trained eyes stare over Dean’s shoulder in search for his father; the unspoken, careful agreement to avoid John Winchester, even if Dean had never explicitly told him why.

The offer surprises Dean. He’d never been to Castiel’s house before - another, unspoken agreement. He didn’t want to be around Castiel’s family any more than Castiel did. “To your place?” 

Castiel nods. “Yes. My father and older brother will not be home tonight.”

“And that means I get candy!” Gabriel declares triumphantly. Castiel breathes a laugh before rolling his eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees, a bit reluctantly. “Perhaps, if Dean joins us, you can show him your favorite kind.”

Dean rubs the back of his head. “Hey, yeah, sure,” Dean says. “I’m almost done - you guys mind waiting around a minute?”

Castiel assures him that they don’t mind. Gabriel is fascinated by the garage - he wants to touch the tools, much to Castiel’s embarrassment. His older brother keeps him away from the sharper ones, but Dean allows the little boy to play with one of the screwdrivers. He even lets Gabriel pretend to “fix the wheel” of the car while he completes the finishing touches on the engine. Castiel’s smile lingers as he watches Gabriel poke at the valve stem.

“Y’know what that part’s called?” Dean asks. Gabriel shakes his head.

“Well, that’s the valve stem...this here is the rim lip. Those are the lug holes.”

Gabriel giggles.

“What’s this part called?” Gabriel asks, pointing a small, gloved finger at the black tire.

“That’s just the tire. Sometimes cars need new ones when they go flat. Maybe I can show you how to change a tire next time you and your brother stop by.”

That brightens Gabriel’s face. Castiel laughs, placing a gentle hand on his little brother’s shoulder as his smile lingers over towards Dean. They share a knowing grin before Dean grows embarrassed and has to duck his face.

“I wanna fix a car,” Gabriel insists. “I want to fix our car. It’s really broken.”

Dean shouts back to his father that he’s heading out for the day, before hurrying out of the garage and back out onto the street. 

“Hey, you’ll be a mechanic in no time,” Dean assures him. That seems to please Gabriel.

As usual, the walk home is relatively silent, but Dean doesn’t mind. The silence is always comfortable with Castiel, something he realizes is an utter relief compared to the endless chattering he hears on the regular at school. Castiel doesn’t need to talk about mindless things, and Dean never minds being the more talkative of the two. Even Gabriel seems to enjoy the silence, occasionally making a comment about when it might snow or rain.

Dean realizes that in the few months he’s known Castiel, he’s never been to the Novak household before, save for the one day Michael Novak let him inside when Dean was returning Castiel’s lost necklace. Castiel feels like someone he’s known for far longer than just a few months - surely, he has, hasn’t he? No - Sam and Dean moved in back in August with their father. It had only been four months. Dean feels dizzy thinking about it. Surely, he’s known Castiel for a lifetime.

In the kitchen, Gabriel is quick to show Dean the small pieces of chocolate aptly tucked away in the small cabinet above the gas stove. Castiel allows him one before sending Gabriel off to play with his toys in the living room. Dean is impressed with how willing Gabriel is to entertain himself - and with how clean he looks when he’s with Castiel. The grubby boy with the dirty shirt and wild hair Dean had seen before is nearly unrecognizable. Wordlessly, Castiel touches Dean’s arm and motions for him to follow him up the flight of steps and onto the top floor. The wooden stairs creak with their age, and the quaint, yet bland hallway at the foot of the stairs boasts two, dusty photographs; one of a woman, presumably Castiel’s mother, and another of all the Novak family sitting together on the sofa. Dean eyes the man with the scruffy beard - Castiel’s father, another member of the family Dean has never seen in person. Pushing open a chipped, white door with a wide crack down the middle, Castiel leads Dean into a bedroom with a large, black piano in the corner that takes up almost half the room.

“This is my room,” Castiel murmurs. The room is very different from Dean’s own; tidy and lined with books, there isn’t much floor space to be had that isn’t taken up by Castiel’s small, single bed or the large instrument against the far wall by the window. What space does remain is taken up by bookshelves. At a closer glance, Dean notices that many of the books are on theology and music theory.

“I considered studying theology when...if I go to college,” Castiel says slowly, noticing Dean’s curiosity. “My mother used to read to me before she died. But music was always...what I liked to do best.”

Dean whistles under his breath. 

“You and Sam, man...both of you are too smart for your own damn good.”

“You’re plenty smart yourself, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “C’mon, man. You’ve seen my grades. I’ll be lucky if I so much as _graduate_.”

“There are many ways to be intelligent. I could never fix a car the way you could, or learn the skills to repair simple objects the way you can.” Instinctively, Castiel’s hand goes over his music pendant that Dean had fixed for him months ago. 

Dean flushes.“It’s nothing.”

Giving him an odd look, Castiel watches Dean as he approaches the large piano, running his hand gently across the surface. Sleek and black, Dean can tell the instrument has seen a number of years. The color is faded, especially on the black bench, and the keys are slightly yellow with wear. Several papers remain stuffed against the tray meant to hold sheets of music. Dean sits down on the bench, running his fingers absently across the keys before Castiel moves to sit beside him.

“This is a song I’ve been writing myself,” Castiel says softly. He pulls up a piece of paper riddled with inky scribblings that Dean can’t make out. He squints at it, trying to decipher any meaning from the drawings on the page. He can’t play music himself - but he remembers his mother, sitting down with him and showing him what notes correspond with keys on a piano long ago. But this is different; this doesn’t look like any sheet of music that Dean has ever seen before. 

“It doesn't have lyrics,” Castiel continues. “I’m...not very good at writing words. But it would be my music. My story. Not just the stories of different music artists.”

Dean leans back against the stool, intimately aware of how close they’re sitting together. He doesn’t want to pull away - but he can all but _feel_ Castiel’s heartbeat through the fabric of his coat. The brush of his skin, imaginary as it is. Dean swallows thickly.

“Play it,” he encourages him earnestly. “I want to hear it.”

Castiel nods as a frantic look falls over his eyes. He stares at the piano, biting his lip as his fingers settle over the weathered keys. 

_He’s nervous,_ Dean realizes with a jolt. _This guy’s a freaking genius, and he’s nervous._

“Hey,” Dean says quietly. “It’s alright. It’s gonna sound...good, Cas’. Just pretend that I’m not here.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Your presence is a consuming thing, Dean. It is hard to pretend you are not around me when we are together. I’ve tried.”

Dean can’t tell if that’s supposed to be an insult or a compliment. He narrows his eyes as a thousand, swarming questions buzz to the forefront of his mind. The flush across his face deepens, never having fully gone away.

“Uh, Cas’ — “

“I’m going to play, now.”

 _Thank God,_ Dean thinks to himself.

And so, Castiel begins to play. And like everything Castiel plays, even on the old piano in desperate need of a tune, the air itself turns into a brilliant melody of liquid gold. Dean sits, terribly still, and listens to him play. The melody is perfect; not a key out of place. Its gentle pace perfectly compliments the rise and fall of the melody with careful chords filling out the sound. Whatever unreadable scribble on the page is guiding Castiel, it’s guiding him well. And when the melody changes pace, quickly jumping to a brisk tempo that almost startles Dean, Castiel is completely lost in the performance. It’s all in his eyes; Dean knows, in that instant, that Castiel has already forgotten Dean isn’t sitting directly beside him, watching him with an intensity Dean hardly understands himself. Dean has never thought about music as art before he met Castiel, but now, he understands it in full. 

As quick as it had begun, Castiel’s melody stops. He sits still on the bench, gazing down at the keys with soft eyes. Silence falls between them before Castiel finally lifts his head to look at Dean.

“Did you like that?” he asks quietly. Dean’s wide, wordless smile is answer enough. Castiel laughs nervously as Dean gives him a playful shove, as though to say _Of course. No_ shit _I liked it. You’re amazing. You’re perfect._

“Dude, you’re gonna be freaking famous one day,” Dean breathes. “Make sure you remember me when you’ve got like, fifty record deals, yeah?”

That draws a nervous laugh out of Castiel.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he admits. But Dean won’t hear it.

“Hey. Shut it. You’re awesome with this — you-you just...you just hear notes in your head and you play them like it’s nothing. I could never do that.”

“Yes, you could, Dean,” Castiel says gently. “Would you like to try?”

Dean freezes where he sits. “Cas’...I’m not any good. I’ve never played before.”

“Nonsense.” He slides off the bench, grabbing Dean’s shoulders and physically scooting him to the middle of the bench. Dean lets out an indignant noise but lets Castiel handle him until he’s positioned directly in the middle of the piano. 

“Cas’, I — ”

“ _Dean_. May I take your hands?”

Dean swallows. His first instinct is to look around the room for any unfriendly eyes, as though the touch of his friend is some sin to be reprimanded. But here, in Castiel’s bedroom, they’re entirely alone. 

“Sure,” he breathes. Castiel carefully comes up behind him, the front of him pressing gently against Dean’s back. He reaches around to take Dean’s hands in his own, impossibly gentle. His hands are smaller than Dean’s and much colder. He places them gently over top of Dean’s, and Dean is acutely aware of Castiel’s gentle breath ghosting across his hair.

“Place your fingers here,” Castiel says quietly. “Would you like to play that song you showed me? ‘Goodbye Stranger?”

Dean nods, afraid that if he tries to speak, nothing but a series of senseless noises would come out.

“Place your fingers at A sharp...C….and E sharp. Like that. Good.” And then, Castiel is moving Dean’s hands over the keys. The tempo is slow, to start, and a little clunky. Dean keeps his eyes fixated on Castiel’s hands, effortlessly moving Dean’s own over the correct chords until the music becomes recognizable. Dean smiles nervously, watching his hands move. Castiel isn’t having him play the melody, but the chords themselves are familiar, and soon, Castiel is slipping his own hands away. Dean can feel the absence like a shot of ice through his veins and it startles him enough to have to readjust his hands.

“Try it on your own, Dean. Just those few repeating chords.”

He does. He misses a few keys here and there, but he can hear the music, even with the keys out of tune. Castiel carefully repositions Dean’s fingers, gently encouraging him to try again. And when Dean does, he gets it perfect.

“See?” Castiel says. He’s smiling, and Dean is, too.

“Heh. I’m not as good as you, Cas’.”

“I just practice, Dean. That’s all.”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Anyone can learn to read music and practice and be good at an instrument. You have a gift. You...you can match what you hear to what’s on that piano like it’s _nothing._ That’s a gift.”

Castiel’s face flushes. He seems unable to accept the compliment as though makes him uncomfortable. His eyes cast down to the dirty carpet. But even over his blush, he’s smiling.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Hey, don’t thank me. I’m just speaking the truth. Like I said, man...you’re the kinda guy who’s gonna get a record deal someday. You’ll be out of this town like it’s nothing.” He claps Castiel over the shoulder. Their shared smile is sad.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs. He sits back down on the bench beside Dean, staring down at the yellowing keys.

“Gabriel... is my tether to this house. He is the reason I have not left yet. I can’t...I can’t just abandon him. He needs me. I am...afraid of what may become of him if I were to leave so soon. Our father...is not a good man. I play at the bar at nights because the money is good, but the things they say to me — “

Dean passes a thick swallow. Images of Castiel’s bruised, broken face strike across his vision, fast and harsh as lightning in a storm cloud.

“Dude...you don’t have to put up with that. If they’re that creepy, get the hell out. Work someplace else.”

“This is all I am good at. And it allows me to save money. For myself. For Gabriel.”

“I get it, man,” Dean says with a shaking voice. I can’t leave my brother, either. He needs me...even if he thinks he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to...do what you’re doing.”

“Perhaps being the eldest sibling will be the true death of us both,” Castiel says simply.

Dean eyes him warily. “Hey. Don't say that."

Before Castiel can respond, movement in the doorway makes them both turn. Gabriel is standing in the doorway, a golden blanket clutched tightly in his small hands behind his back. He spreads it out behind his shoulders, mimicking the appearance of golden wings. Above him, the dingy, hallway light casts a soft glow over his head, illuminating his thin, brown hair.

"I'm sleepy," he mumbles. As if to emphasize his point, he flaps the blanket behind him, ushering a soft chuckle from his older brother. 

"Did you hear Dean play the piano earlier, Gabriel?" Castiel asks softly. He stands up from his spot on the bench, moving to lift Gabriel into his arms. The little boy nods, glancing over at Dean before leaning his head down to rest against his older brother's shoulder. 

"I think he's very talented on the piano, don't you think?"

Dean's face flushes. He laughs softly, shaking his head with a wave of his hand.

"Nah, don't listen to him, Gabe," Dean snorts. "That was all your brother."

Castiel smiles, looking between the two fondly before placing a gentle kiss to the top of his brother’s head. It's tender and impeccably gentle; so, so different from the vicious, angry boy who diligently protected Dean from school bullies not so long ago. 

"I think it’s time for bed," Castiel hums. "Say goodnight to Dean."

Gabriel mumbles a tired "g'night", waving a tiny hand towards Dean as he slumps over against his brother's shoulder once more. Watching them go, Dean hears Gabriel mumble something to Castiel about singing him a song. With a jolt, Dean wonders if Castiel can actually sing - he wouldn’t be surprised if he could. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he shifts closer to the open door, straining his ears for any sound from the room beside Castiel’s. Sure enough, he _is_ singing; a soft, low melody that takes Dean a moment to recognize.

_Hey, Jude.  
_ _  
_ _Don’t make it bad_

_Take a sad song,_

_and make it better…_

_Remember to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better…_

Dean smiles. Of course, Castiel could sing. Dean doesn’t know why he even wondered that in the first place. Music flows from Castiel as easily as a river finds its way to the sea. 

Gabriel must have fallen asleep quickly because Castiel returns to the room before the song ends. He glances at the clock on the wall; 10:00. Dean hadn’t realized how late it had been, or how long he had stayed. He doesn’t want to leave, but he knows that he should.

“My brother loves music,” Castiel says after a moment. “He takes after our mother that way. This piano was hers before she died.”

Instinctively, Castiel clutches at the pendant hanging dutifully around his throat. It’s a source of endless bullying for Castiel; he’s teased about it constantly, though the threats seemed to have died down when word got out that he’d drawn a knife on the three biggest bullies in school. The teasing never once seemed to prompt him to take it off. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without it on.

“It’s beautiful,” Dean says quietly. “Old...but beautiful.”

“We can’t afford to bring someone in to tune it,” Castiel murmurs. “But it still makes beautiful music, even when slightly run down. Most people do not appreciate a musical instrument that doesn’t perform its job exactly as it should...but it’s still capable of creating something beautiful.”

Castiel places his hand on the piano. Dean watches him, wordless. He only nods. A long moment of silence falls between them with only the soft ticking of the clock on the wall to account for any noise.

“It’s late, Dean,” Castiel says at last. “Your father will be missing you.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably where he stands. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, for, um...for showing me this.”

Castiel smiles shyly. “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

Quietly, as not to wake Gabriel, the two creep down the steps once Dean gathers his things. By the door, they say a quick goodbye before Castiel begins to shut the door. Dean catches it before he does.

“Cas’. Wait.”

Castiel freezes in place, peering at Dean with wordless curiosity.

“I just...I just wanted to say that I hear you play the piano. At night. And...I really like it. I love it, actually. It’s something I look forward to, no matter what the song is. I just wanted you to know that.”

The confession feels heavy in Dean’s stomach like he’d just breached something intimate and private that was never meant to be spoken aloud. But Castiel smiles; a smile that makes Dean feel utterly weak in the knees.

“I’m...glad, Dean. You were the one person I was hoping would hear it. That means so much coming from you.”

Stunned, Dean can only nod. Wordless as ever, when words seem so shallow compared to what he feels. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“N-night.”

Castiel shuts the door, leaving Dean on the porch alone with the thoughts racing like bats in the night. He hurries home, eager to clear his head and the thudding in his chest.

But, the giddy, nervous jitter in his limbs fades as quickly as it had come. Dean can hear the noise before he even reaches his own yard; yelling, the sounds of an inconsolable fight, coming from the house - _his_ house. He tenses, pausing as he listens with growing alarm the muffled screaming. Something thuds to the floor, and Dean bolts into action. He races across the lawn, throwing open the front door as the yelling reaches a dizzying crescendo.

“That tone of voice _isn’t allowed in this house!_ I’ve already told you what’s expected of you; you live in this house, you contribute!”

Dean runs into the kitchen, stopping short when he sees his father and Sam standing from across the room. Sam’s face is flushed and Dean can tell his younger brother is on the brink of tears.

“I do help out!” Sam snaps. He’s angry. But his voice wavers, giving way to his fear. “I make dinner, I do chores, I help you with the groceries. I clean every day! I have homework to do. Mrs. Smith wants to put me in the AP World History class and I have to read a bunch of books for it ahead of time. I already told you — “

“Well all that school shit isn’t gonna matter if we don’t have a roof over our heads, is it?!” John demands. 

Dean bolts forward, stepping between them and looking at them both with a strained expression.

“Hey, hey! Look, whatever’s going on, we can deal with it, okay? Dad, I told you I can pick up extra hours if you need me to — “  
John raises his hand sharply. “This isn’t about you, Dean. This is about your brother learning respect for his family. All that school crap is great and all until he doesn’t have a house anymore to do his school work in. It’s about time you two learned to prioritize what’s right.”

Sam bares his teeth. “You’re being a jerk,” he hisses at their father. Dean springs into action, spinning around to face his father when he takes a long, heavy stride towards Sam. But it’s not enough; John grabs Dean’s arm and shoves him aside, causing Dean to stumble against the table with a muffled grunt. He jerks his hand forward and grabs Sam by the shirt in a hard grip. Immediately, Dean watches as his brother’s lingering threads of anger give way to pure, unfiltered fear.

“You’re going to get your ass to bed. _Now_. Before I really give you something to get all scared about. I won’t hear any of that disrespect in this house. You don’t like the way I run things, you can get the hell out!”

He jerks Sam back, causing him to stumble against the wall before releasing his shirt. Without another word, John stalks out of the kitchen and up into his bedroom. Sparing one, wild look in his brother’s direction, Sam lets out a tortured groan before running upstairs to their room. Feeling dazed, Dean’s heart races in his chest as he lingers in the kitchen, feeling too numb to move right away. With a heavy heart and an ache in his ribs where John had shoved him into the table, he follows Sam upstairs.

"I hate him, Dean," Sam sobs when Dean stumbles into their room. "I hate him. _I hate him._ I don't want to be here anymore. I don't get it, I-I _hate this!"_

Dean doesn't say anything at all. A hard lump forms in his throat as he sits beside Sam on his bed, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders. Sam cries into Dean's shoulders with quiet, hitching sobs. All Dean can do is give Sam a shoulder for him to cry on; a rock in his brother's endless, stormy sea. Dean's ribs ache from when he'd been shoved against the wooden table, and his body feels unsteady as the moving tide. He feels weak. Like he can’t possibly bear the burden of both of their fear. Dean's fear of disobedience. Sam's fear of his own, desperate ache to live a life of his own. It’s only then that Dean sees the bruise on Sam’s chin. Their father had hit him before Dean had a chance to stop it before he had come home.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean finally whispers. He feels responsible for this. If he had just come home sooner. "Dad just - you know how he gets…"

Sam looks up at him in disbelief. His eyes are red and puffy, filled with tears.

"How can you defend him? He pushed you into a table, Dean! He _punched_ me!”

"Sam - "

"Just leave me alone," Sam whispers hoarsely. "I'm going to bed."

Dean stares at his brother in disbelief. "Sam, c’mon…"

"I said leave me alone."

Sam jerks the blanket over him, turning over his bed to face the wall. Guilt weighs heavy in Dean’s chest as he stands up on shaky legs and finally climbs into bed. He can’t protect Castiel, and he can’t protect his own brother. He’s a failure on all fronts. If Sam never spoke to him again after tonight, Dean could hardly blame him. In time, he’s sure Castiel will grow sick of him, too. They’re already both going to leave him, someday. Dean almost wishes they would already; to rip the bandaid off and let him feel it all at once. To let them be safe and happy the way that they deserve and Dean knows he never will.

Despite his guilt, he silently prays that Castiel would play the piano tonight. Anything to distract him from his racing thoughts. But the sound doesn't come, and Dean’s sleep is fitful. Weighed down with guilt, Dean doesn’t sleep for several hours, and when he does, his dreams are confusing; love and violence intermingle with Castiel’s face and John Winchester’s hands. His brother’s cries. Weights around his feet leaving him to drown.

Dean sleeps wishing for the summertime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwIyb6M6Aks)** is the song I had in mind when I pictured Castiel playing a melody of his own.  
> Thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with this so far. We're nearing the end, and I'm super excited for the next few chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dark. There is nothing graphic, but be mindful of the tags, please - all of them. Endless thank yous to everyone who's been keeping up with this so far. <3

**Chapter 7** **  
** **March 1977**

\--

It’s not the summertime - not yet - but the icy mornings that make room for warmer, milder days are ones Dean can accept with grace.

On the grass outside, Dean lays down beside the large oak tree in the Novaks’ front yard. In the slick grass damp from last night’s rain, he watches as Gabriel chases Castiel around the yard, trying to scare him with his fake mustache. Occasionally, Castiel lets out a dramatic groan of fear and topples to the wet ground, letting Gabriel pounce on his older brother. His tiny fists beat against Castiel’s chest, sending them both into hysterical laughter. Dean is grinning the entire time, enjoying the sunshine finally reaching from behind the misty clouds.

“Let ‘em have it, Gabe!” Dean calls out. He folds his arms behind his head, beaming at the sight. The little boy giggles, and for a moment, true fear flashes across Castiel’s eyes. Gabriel rears back before charging at him from across the lawn and belly-flopping right onto his brother’s chest. Castiel lets out a harsh _ungh!_ as the breath whooshes from his lungs. He coughs and groans as Gabriel and Dean shriek with laughter. 

“I’m blaming you for this, Dean,” Castiel groans. Dean rolls his eyes, standing up to walk over to the pair. A single dandelion draws Gabriel’s attention, and Dean gives Castiel a soft laugh when Castiel tumbles to his feet, only to collapse down onto his back beside Dean on the cool grass.

“Aw, c’mon, Cas’. You know you love me.”

Castiel gives Dean a tired, weary smile. His hair is tousled and littered with pieces of cut grass and dirt. As rays of light dart out from behind the clouds, they cast little reflections of light across his damp hair like the beginnings of a halo. 

“More than you know, Dean.”

Where those words may have made Dean numb long ago, he smiles at them now. It doesn’t have to make sense, does it? And since when has anything about Castiel ever made sense? Dean has never wanted Castiel to be predictable - God knows he’s never been before. Even still, the words echo soft and still in Dean’s ears, flooding him with a tirade of warmth. _More than you know._ Dean turns his head, watching Castiel’s dark, messy hair catch in the springtime wind. He shivers; the weather isn’t quite warm enough for a t-shirt. Not yet. But that doesn’t stop Dean from refusing to wear a jacket at the first hint of sunshine, much to Castiel’s dismay.

 _You’ll catch a chill, Dean,_ Castiel often said.

But how could he when he feels so warm inside?

Gabriel trots over to the pair, offering a small, yellow flower in his tiny hand. “Here. For you,” he chirps. He gives his brother the dandelion. Castiel accepts it, and Gabriel’s small forehead scrunches up in a frown.

“You’re supposed to put it in your hair,” he insists. Castiel chuckles and tucks it behind his ear. “Like that?”

Gabriel giggles. “Like that. I’m gonna go find more.”

He takes off across the lawn, leaving Castiel alone with Dean. Dean grins and shakes his head. With a careful hand, he brushes loose strands of grass from Castiel’s hair. 

_More than you know,_ he thinks to himself. The words echo, a gentle repeat thudding around in his mind. Castiel’s voice is an echo, casting a sharp tendril of longing through his chest. _Is that so, Cas’?_

“He’s a good kid,” Dean says instead. 

Castiel nods in agreement. He isn’t looking at Dean, not now; he’s pushing himself upright into a sitting position to watch his brother gather flowers out on the lawn. Dean follows his gaze “He is. He has a lot of life in him...I hope he learns to play the piano one day. On a piano that’s in-tune...one that he can learn on properly.”

“He will,” Dean says quietly. He shifts his weight between his feet on the grass, shoving his hands into his jean pockets as they watch Gabriel gather more flowers.

“I want to take him away from this place. This summer,” Castiel says suddenly. Dean looks at him, a bit surprised. 

“Wait, really?”

Castiel nods, still watching his brother play. 

“I may have enough money saved...Seattle. I’ve heard Seattle is...is a good music scene. No more playing for men in the dark. No more...any of this.” He looks at Dean, his gaze taking on an intensity Dean is unused to. Hesitantly, Dean pushes himself off the lawn to sit upright to look at him better.

“You’re really gonna leave?” Dean asks quietly. “For good?”

Castiel doesn’t look at him. But he nods a silent ‘yes’ as he watches Gabriel play. In the middle of the yard, the world seems to spin around them, unfurling some great becoming that neither of them will ever get to see. The whole world turns around this small town, Dean realizes. Nothing happens here. Time simply moves on without them. He always knew Castiel would leave this place behind. But now, the thought of losing him for good makes Dean feel sick. His head spins, and suddenly, he’s convinced he can’t breathe.

“Dean?” Castiel asks softly. “Are you okay?” He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Soft, concerned eyes wandering his face, yearning for an explanation that Dean can’t give.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “Fine...I’m fine. That’s...that’s great, Cas’. I’m so happy for you.”

Castiel looks so, so human here; so free. His face is soft and absent of worry. No bruises cut across his gentle, study features. Dean wants to take his face into his hands and cradle them forever where nothing could hurt him again. Maybe it’s the first, warm day of the springtime that jolts Dean’s heart to life, like this -- or maybe it’s that he’s finally seeing Castiel with open eyes now that the reality of what Dean always knew to be true is staring him right in the face.

“I’ve told you before, Cas’. If anyone can get the hell out of here, it’s you.”

Castiel turns to smile at him. It’s a sad, worried smile. “You would not come with me?”

He speaks the words as though he already knows the answer.

Dean stares at him, his fists clenching in his pockets. God, how hard would it be to say yes to such a distant dream? He always knew this town was too small for him. It chokes him, leaves him aching and dreaming of a life bigger than this one. His own, selfish secret. Dean has always wanted to see the road, to drive and drive until there’s nothing possibly left to see. 

_Yes. Yes, of course, I’d come with you. I’d do anything to get the hell out of here. I’d do anything to take on the whole freaking world with you. I’d follow you to the end of the damn earth if you just asked me to._

And here Castiel is, asking him to do the very thing Dean wants more than anything else. But Dean knows, better than anyone, that he can’t leave.

“I can’t,” he breathes. The simple truth cuts through him razor-shop. “I’ve got my brother to look out for, remember? My dad...he’s...he needs me. That car shop is all we have. Without it, we’d be back on the road again.”

Castiel nods solemnly, turning to watch his brother pluck a small dandelion from the wet grass. “You are as unhappy here as I am, Dean. Your happiness is important, too. Don’t you know that?”

Dean sighs. He looks down at his feet, unable to answer right away. At his feet, a small cricket jumps between his shoes before hopping away into the grass. He watches it go, momentarily distracted.

“I’m as happy as I can get, Cas’,” he says finally. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.”

Baffled, he freezes when he and Castiel meet each other’s eyes. Castiel, with so much to worry about, with so much hurt and pain in his life...worries about Dean? Suddenly, Dean feels terribly small.

“Cas’,” he breathes. “The hell are you worrying about me for? You…”

Even now, he can’t say it. He can’t bring light to the suffering he knows that Castiel endures. He can’t acknowledge it, no matter how desperately he wants to. How desperately he has to. Castile deserves that much, he deserves to know that Dean sees his pain so clearly. That he can endure Castiel’s pain with him if he must. 

_Coward, Winchester. You’re a fucking coward._

“You don’t have to,” Dean says quietly. “I’m fine. You...you getting outta here is important, yeah? You have to do what’s right for you and your brother.”

Castiel gives him a lingering look. He opens his mouth as though to say something else, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. He turns, and both he and Dean see the harrowing sight at the same time; Gabriel, wandering into the street to chase dandelion seeds dancing in the wind just as a car rounds the corner, driving too fast for the quiet street.

They scramble to their feet and bolt for the road. Dean is faster than Castiel is and quickly pulls ahead of him, his long legs pumping furiously across the grass. He’s too slow, too slow, he wouldn’t make it. Oblivious, Gabriel wanders onto the sidewalk, headed straight for the path of the oncoming car. 

On autopilot, Dean dives forward, grabbing Gabriel harshly by his waist and pulling him back against Dean’s body. Dean hits the pavement hard, just out of the way of the car that comes to a screeching halt. He barely feels the searing pain of the pavement digging into his arm or the bloody rivets scratching up his skin. Gabriel whimpers, but the boy doesn’t cry. Carefully, Dean lets him go just as Castiel reaches them. His face flushed, Castiel inspects his brother for any cuts or bruises as the car pulls up to the house. Dean stumbles to his feet, grateful when Gabriel seems to be fine - just shaken. Castiel tries to chastise him for playing in the road, but he’s too shaken to be angry - he pulls his brother into a weak hug instead as Dean tries to brush himself off.

It takes almost a full minute for the adrenaline to die down, and that’s when the pain hits. He gingerly rubs his arm clean of any dirt, wincing when it sends a white-hot sear of pain up his arm. He looks over, watching as the driver that nearly hit Gabriel stumbles out of the car with a dark look crossing his features. Dean watches Castiel’s expression fall into a look of dread as he looks over Gabriel’s shoulder; a flash of desperation, before he’s gingerly placing Gabriel at his side. It’s not Michael — the man has a scruffy beard and angry, sunken eyes, clearly much older than the eldest Winchester brother.

It hits Dean like a sucker punch straight to the gut; this is Castiel’s father. Rooted in place, Dean looks between the two of them, feeling as though he’s about to witness something terrible. The wind picks up, stirring their hair. He expects their father to be relieved he didn’t nearly kill his six-year-old son - but instead, his beady eyes flash bright with rage.

Castiel stands at attention, stiff as a board, eyes wider than fear itself as the man stalks across the lawn. Even little Gabriel stands stiffly at his brother’s side, a small fist clutching his brother’s coat. His small eyes fill with fear. 

“What the hell was that?!” he demands. “I almost killed your brother, Castiel! Get in the house. _Now_.”

“Father,” Castiel begins hesitantly. Dean can hear the fear in his voice. Carefully, Dean makes a move to stand beside the two brothers, unsure of what he can or should do — only knowing that he _would_ throw himself between the brothers and their father if he has to. Ugly memories of Castiel’s bruises flash across his vision, filing Dean with quiet rage.

“I said get in the house, Castiel,” their father says slowly. “And bring your brother. _Now_.”

“Father, it-it was an accident. I was watching him the whole time and I looked away for not even a minute. I’m sorry.”

Dean recognizes that tremor in Castiel’s voice. That test of bravery. The uncertainty in standing up for himself, as though this is the first time he ever dared to speak up against his own father. As their father draws closer, Dean can smell the alcohol radiating from his breath and skin - he was drunk behind the wheel and _had_ been going far, far too fast for the speed limit of the normally-quiet street.

 _Atta boy, Cas’,_ Dean thinks to himself. _Stick it to him. This was his fault._

“Come in, or don’t. The choice is yours, Castiel. You know what happens when you disobey me.”

The two brothers look at one another. Dean sees the fear in Gabriel’s eyes, amplifying Castiel’s own.

“Cas’...” Dean breathes, quiet enough that their father wouldn’t be able to hear everything. “Just come back to my place. He’s a jerk. You weren’t doing anything, he’s just — “

Castiel raises a hand, shaking his head. “No. I have to go. He’ll...take it out on Gabriel if I don’t.” At his side, Gabriel tugs on his coat with a whimper. His wide eyes fill with fear as he looks up at his older brother. Softly, the boy’s lower lip begins to tremble. He looks more afraid of their father’s anger than he was being hit by the car.

“I don’t wanna go in there,” Gabriel whispers. “I don’t wanna go to Daddy.”

Castiel kneels beside him, placing a soft hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Gabriel. We have to,” he says seriously. Dean shakes his head, placing a hand on his shoulder. Castiel ignores it.

“But — “

“Gabriel. Let’s go.”

Dean watches in disbelief as Castiel silently takes his brother’s hand and begins walking towards the door. Their father glares at them both, arms folded, leaving Dean in the middle of the yard.

“Cas’, wait!” he calls out hoarsely. “Cas’ — “

Dean’s voice breaks. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes. He feels afraid, terrified, for what’s to come. Again and again, the ugly visions of both the brothers in pain strike across his eyes, leaving him weak. Dean knows his friend will get hurt again and Dean wouldn’t be able to do a single thing about it. But Castiel doesn’t look back, not even when Dean calls out his name a second, and then a third time. Guilt bubbles up in Dean’s stomach, and he turns away with an angry, defeated cry. He runs across the yard and towards his house, plowing through the front door before slamming it behind him. He stalks up the stairs and to his room, throwing himself on the bed and burying his face in his arms, not caring who’s home or if his father could have seen him. He doesn’t know how much time passes as he lays in bed and weeps in anger and unspeakable guilt, as though this whole mess were his fault. His fault for not speaking up. His fault for standing by as people he loved got hurt. 

Dean doesn’t look up. Not even when Sam comes in and silently places something on the bedside table next to Dean before leaving again. Dean only cries softly into his pillow, slamming his fist down against the mattress with a soft groan as his whole body shakes and heaves. Finally, pushes himself upright as the weight of everything he’d just seem settles heavily in his chest. He looks beside him. On the table, Sam had left a bottle of beer and a small grilled cheese sandwich. Despite himself, Dean digs into the food, not realizing how hungry he’d been.

Once he’s finished, he downs the beer in four, large gulps, and sits quietly on his bed. He doesn’t bother playing his record player or even opening one of his car magazines. He just sits, hoping for some kind of sign that everything would be okay again. Even when he knows it wouldn’t be. He’d ignored this for so long, and now that it’s staring him right in the face, Dean doesn’t know what to do. His friend is being hurt, probably as he speaks, and he’s sitting here, _crying_ , as though it were happening to him instead.

 _Why don't you just be a man, Dean?_ he thinks to himself. _For once in your life, just be a freaking man and do what you’re supposed to do._

A sense of urgency floods his veins. He’s done hiding. He can’t do this anymore, and he doesn't want to. He won’t. He doesn’t care about the consequences, doesn’t care about his own fear or uncertainty or whatever else had been holding him back before. He lurches himself out of bed and grabs his shoes. He was going to go over there and stop whatever the hell was happening, even if it meant he’d get hurt in the process. Castiel is his friend. His best friend. He doesn’t care if he’s _queer_ , or if he’s weird, or anything else that —

Dean’s frantic thoughts are interrupted when Sam pushes open their bedroom door. He takes one look at Dean — his puffy, tearstained eyes, his red face, and immediately looks down at the floor.

“I could tell you were really upset. Dean — where are you going?”

“I’m going to Cas’ house,” he says gruffly, trying not to meet his brother’s eyes.

Sam frowns. “Why?”

“Because he’s getting hurt as we speak. His dad — his dad’s some freaking psychopath. I’ve known it for so long, but...I never did a damn thing, Sam. He keeps getting hurt because I won’t do anything.”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean...I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

Dean ignores him as he sits down on the bed and begins lacing up his boot. A part of him knows that Sam is right. But he doesn’t care.

“Dean, seriously. If he’s as crazy as you say, maybe you should stay out of this and call the police. He could hurt you, or — or get you arrested or something.”

“I don’t care, Sam.”

Sam folds his arms across his chest as Dean looks up. Suddenly, Sam seems so much older for his fourteen years. He looks like an _adult._ A kid that had to grow up too soon. A kid who was also being hurt by an adult in their lives, and who Dean still failed to protect.

“Well I do, Dean. Before we had a house, Dad used to say and do all kinds of dumb stuff to you. He used to hit you, too. And I wish I would’ve done something, too — “

“That’s different,” Dean growls. “And I told you I don’t talk about any of that. What’s done is done. I’m his son, I’m supposed to do what’s right by him and by you. I didn’t — so I dealt with the consequences. And now, I’m gonna do what’s right by my-my friend. And by you - I’m done after today, Sam. I’m not letting anyone hurt you or Cas’ anymore.”

Sam looks crestfallen. Suddenly, he doesn’t seem so grown-up anymore. Because he’s not, Dean knows. He’s a kid. A kid Dean has to look after, too. 

“You always stood up for me when Dad was mean to me,” he whispers. “You’ve always done that. But then you’d get all the hitting instead, and I can’t take that either. Please don’t get hurt again, Dean. I can’t just watch you get hurt.”

Dean bares his teeth. Sam’s words are daggers against his skin. He can’t _think._ He can’t betray his brother any more than he can let Castiel get hurt. In the silence of the room, he realizes he can hear muffled yelling from the open window next door. Both brothers turn, staring, as the yelling grows in volume.

“I can’t just do _nothing,_ Sam,” Dean breathes. His voice breaks as tears fill his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Then call the police. Report it.”

“The cops won’t do _shit_ , Sam.”

Sam sighs. “You have to try. For your friend. I like Castiel, Dean. He’s a good friend. And you...you’re happier when you’re with him. When he’s happy, I know you are, too.”

Dean swallows a thick lump in his throat. Tears drip down the eldest brother’s face. Silently, Sam motions for Dean to follow him downstairs. Numbly, Dean follows him into the kitchen, feeling his whole body shake and tremble with the weight of it all In the kitchen, Sam pulls the phone off of the receiver on the wall and hands it to Dean. His hand trembles as he accepts it, feeling the world spin around him in a flurry of motion and unbearable pain. His fingers shake as he dials 9-1-1. And when the operator answers, Dean’s voice feels very small and far away.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he says gruffly. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam smiles. “And I’m reporting an incident next door…”

Almost fifteen minutes later, a cop car arrives.

Five minutes after that, a second car arrives. Then a third. Dean watches from the window as an argument ensues between the Novaks’ father and the older brother, Michael. A police officer has to force the two of them apart. Dean watches in disbelief as the father is handcuffed and pulled into the back of the police car. Castiel and Gabriel are nowhere to be seen. 

“I need to go over there,” Dean breathes. Sam grabs his shoulder.

“Dean. Don’t. Just wait.”

He waits. He sits and he waits, staring out the window, watching as the car carrying the Novaks’ father drives away. Moments later, Dean hears sirens blare down the normally-quiet street, growing in volume. Moments later, an ambulance pulls up to the Novak house and two EMTs quickly pull out a stretcher from the back. Dean doesn’t even breathe or wait for Sam to speak; he explodes out of his chair and races out the door. He charges across the lawn as they disappear inside the house and quickly re-emerge outside with a small body on a stretcher. Dean’s stomach sinks. He stares, rooted in place until Castiel is hurrying outside with his coat loosely trailing behind him

“Cas’ — Cas’, what happened?” he gasps. Castiel turns to face him, his eyes filled with tears. Michael follows his younger brother outside, looking dazed and pale. He glances between the two, unable to believe what he’s seeing. Michael barely acknowledges that Dean is there at all.

“Castiel. Go with Gabriel in the ambulance. I’m going to follow with the car.”

Castiel nods. He gives Dean a miserable look as he climbs into the ambulance with the EMTs, leaving Dean alone outside. Finally, the EMTs slam the door and the ambulance screams down the street with Michael in close pursuit. Dean watches them go, feeling dizzy. He doesn’t understand what just happened, but something tells him that making the police call was the right move. He feels dizzy and disoriented. Everything had happened so fast, he didn’t get a look at Gabriel, and couldn’t tell what had happened to him as a result.

He feels sick. It’s only Sam’s hand on his shoulder that keeps him from dropping to his knees in the middle of the yard. He hadn’t even noticed his brother had followed him outside. Vaguely, he’s aware of his father’s car pulling into their driveway behind them. But he doesn’t give it a second look. He clutches his stomach, and vomits into the grass, his stomach lurching painfully as it empties its contents. His brother, and soon even his father, are the ones who finally usher him back inside. 

Dean doesn’t want to talk. He only wants to sleep. He shoves off his father’s questions, even when he grows angry, and shuffles off to his room. It’s still early in the day — not even five o’clock. But all he wants to do is sleep. He sleeps for hours in his clothes, only having the sense to take off his shoes before collapsing into bed. Eventually, when his alarm rings for school the next day, he ignores it and even ignores Sam’s pleas to get up and walk with him to school. He sleeps, wolfs down a bowl of cereal hours later, and when he can’t fall back asleep, Dean lays in bed. He stares at the ceiling numbly, aching for something that could never be put into words. When he closes his eyes, he sees Castiel’s haunted face; he sees Gabriel’s tiny body on the stretcher. He sees the empty, sunken eyes of their father and the bruises on Castiel’s face.

He sees himself. Weak, afraid, and too much of a coward to do anything until it’s too late.

He finally drags himself out of bed when it’s time to go to work. Like a ghost, Dean doesn’t feel present. He does what he’s supposed to do, fixing up the cars in the shop, listening obediently when his father explains a more difficult repair. He spends hours staring at cars, grateful for the distraction the job provides; the smell of the oil, the pleasant burn in his muscles, his father murmuring directions. And when he comes home with his father, covered in grease and dirt, he hates himself for wishing he could hear Castiel’s piano playing. A sign that Castiel is home from the hospital, that Gabriel is okay, that everything would be okay. That Dean made the right call. That he’d made the call in time.

Dean doesn’t see Castiel outside the next day. In the cool March wind, Dean walks to and from the garage with his father, unable to keep his eyes from lingering on the neighbor’s quiet house.

Dean spends the rest of the week in the garage after school when he can bring himself to go. Sam spends time with his friends and spends less and less time at the house. The fighting between him and their father had grown into an ugly crescendo and it bleeds into every corner of their lives. John is irritable and short with Dean at work. Sam is quiet and moody, not wanting to talk or even listen to music when they’re alone. Most days, Dean tries to break it up when it gets too loud. But more and more lately, Dean merely goes upstairs and slams his bedroom door behind him, unable to take it. He intervenes when he thinks Sam is in danger, but that’s it. He doesn’t have the energy for anything else.

Sometimes, Dean knocks on the Novaks’ door when he’s feeling particularly brave. But nobody answers, and the house remains quiet as a tomb. Dean searches for any sign of Castiel at school when Dean does decide to go and finds none, day after day as March bleeds into early April. 

Sometimes, Benny will say hello to him. But Dean is distant and quiet and turns down his offers to hang out after school, saying he’s too busy with work. It isn’t a total lie.

It isn’t three weeks after the incident that Dean spots Castiel in the hall. He has to physically hold himself back from launching himself at his friend and throwing his arms around his neck in a massive hug. Dean nearly trips as he stumbles over to Castiel’s locker where his friend stands stiff, loading books into his backpacks. His vision tunnels and darkens around him, not caring about a single thing except for the sight of his friend. Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder as he turns him around with a wide grin.

Castiel’s face is red. His lip is swollen, and a dark, poorly-concealed bruise stretches across his jaw. He looks dazed and unable to focus his darting gaze on any one thing. Dean feels his stomach lurch.

“Cas’. H-hey — “

“Hello, Dean.”

They stare at one another, unblinking. The mindless chatter in the hallways is a dull, muffled roar in Dean’s ears as the earth stands still around them. Hesitantly, Dean lifts his hand to brush his fingers across the bruise on Castiel’s face, forgetting about anyone who could see. It’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged the marks on Castiel’s face.

“Cas,” he breathes. “Your face —”

Castiel shakes his head. “I have to go, Dean. I only came by to pick up my homework.”

Dean draws his hand back slowly. “What do you mean…?”

“My brother’s funeral is today.”

Dean recoils, as though struck. He feels his mouth hang open as the jarring memory of Gabriel Novak on the large, hospital stretcher floods his vision. His chest feels tight, his lungs unresponsive as his whole body trembles. When Dean goes to speak again, his voice is a raspy whisper.

“Funeral?” he croaks. “What…?”

Castiel nods, disturbingly calm. He even _smiles_ as he takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it.

“Yes,” he says quietly. His eyes are wide as they land over Dean’s, wide and strained. As though the very foundation of Castiel’s strength is in looking at Dean. As though ripping his gaze away would unravel every, carefully-woven thread Castiel has achingly stitched together in his own mind and leave him in ruin. Dean grasps at Castiel’s hand with both of his, desperate to understand, even though the truth is horrifically, achingly simple. He’s never touched him like this in public; if he could hear the snickers and pointed laughs directed at them, he would have punched somebody in the face then and there.

“My father hit me. Gabriel saw it happen and ran between us. My father shoved him aside and pushed him down the stairs. He died of head trauma, but he was unconscious the entire time. He didn’t feel any pain.”

Dean’s eyes fill with tears as he shakes his head. _No. No. I didn’t call in time. If I had called sooner...if I had just run after you, Cas’..._

“I must go, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. He’s still smiling, _comforting Dean_ as though this were Dean’s tragedy and not his own. “Michael is waiting in the car for me as we speak. I should go to his funeral. I can’t miss it, of course.”

Dean just shakes his head. He wants to sink into the floor and hold Castiel until his pain subsides. He wants to take every ounce of pain and make it his own. Castiel doesn’t deserve this. _Gabriel_ didn’t deserve this.

“Cas’,” he whimpers. “I’m...so sorry.”

Castiel simply shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Thank you, Dean. For everything. I will...remember you fondly.”

Dean shakes his head frantically. _I will remember you fondly._ That isn’t something you say to someone who will be gone for an afternoon. Or for a week. Or a month. _Gabriel is my tether to this house,_ he had told Dean. And suddenly, Dean knows exactly what Castiel had meant. Dean feels sick -- and he’s too weak to beg. Too weak to plead for Castiel to stay. It would be cruel. Another betrayal, another failure on Dean’s part. But maybe if he just believes this isn’t for real --

“Why does this sound like a goodbye?” Dean whispers. Around them, the late bell rings. It pounds against Dean’s eardrums, but the noise is drowned out by the deafening silence of Castiel’s voice. God, Castiel even _smiles_ at Dean. Smiling like somebody who’s looking upon a rainbow after a terrible, terrible storm.

“Because it is,” Castiel says simply. His voice breaks. Dean can feel Castiel’s grief pushing through the cracks of his steely foundation. He grabs Castiel’s shoulders, slowly shaking his head. _You can’t leave me now,_ he wants to say _._ But he doesn’t dare be so selfish. Not now. God, he _can’t_ \--

“I love you,” Castiel says quietly.

The words are a lightning bolt to every nerve in Dean’s shaking body. Castiel reaches a shaking hand up to cradle Dean’s face, tears dripping down the sides of his face. Dean feels his heart angrily hammer against his chest, demanding the words that Dean can’t bring himself to return as Castiel leans close, bringing his face mere inches from Dean’s. Their lips don’t touch, but the whisper of Castiel’s breath against Dean’s mouth is enough to feel like the kiss that would never come. Dean closes his eyes.

A teacher barks at them to get to class, jolting them both awake. With wide eyes, Castiel pulls back, leaving Dean trembling where he stands. Before Dean can say a word, Castiel turns and runs down the hallway and out the doors. Dean watches him go, the teacher’s words sharp against his eardrums before he turns and treads heavily down the hall. Each footstep is an echo, empty and tired as Dean feels the weight of the world tumble onto his shoulders. A weight he never understood, until then. Until it was too late.

He doesn’t know where Castiel is going. But something tells Dean he likely wouldn’t see him ever again, and that wherever he would go, it would be to a place where Dean couldn’t follow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post chapters once a week since I have them all written out and simply edit/revise them before I place them here - but I was so excited to share this with you all that I've been posting all over the place! There's one more chapter left after this one, and I'm hoping with all my might that it's gonna be a good ending to this story that's been sitting in my head for so many years.
> 
> Be mindful that, in this chapter, there will be a lot of homophobia and more examples of emotional and physical abuse taking place. As I've said in the tags and in my responses to the wonderful comments I've been receiving, this story WILL have a happy ending.

**Chapter 8**  
**May 1977**

\--

On a particularly warm afternoon, Dean laughs as Benny hurries to catch up beside him on the sidewalk. The sidewalk is damp with re cent rainfall and the gentle, soothing wind is enough to make Dean shrug out of his flannel to feel the warmth across his bare arms. Benny rolls his eyes, giving Dean a well-earned punch on the shoulder when he finally picks himself up and unlaces his shoes Dean had aptly tied together when Benny hadn't been looking.

“What are you, twelve?” Benny huffs. “Tying my shoes together? Really?”

“It’s how he shows love,” Sam groans with a roll of his eyes. “He does it to me all the time.”

Dean punches Sam in the shoulder, causing Sam to wince and shoot him a dirty look.

“Yeah, except Benny’s cool and you’re a nerd,” Dean points out. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who begged me to watch  _ Scooby-Doo _ with you like six times. You’ve seen every episode.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Benny laughs, causing Dean’s face to heat up. Pleased with his effort at effectively embarrassing his older brother, Sam laughs along with him as the three boys finish their walk home from school. Sam gives them a quick “see ya” as he turns down the road to walk to a friend’s house, leaving Dean and Benny to finish their walk back to Dean’s house alone.

“Seems fun to have siblings,” Benny chuckles.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. I mean, Sam’s actually pretty alright as far as dumb little brothers go. He’s a pain in the ass, but I’d clock anyone a new one if they hurt him, y’know?”

Benny nods thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I think I’d still rather be an only child though. It seems like it sucks to have to share a room with someone all the time.”

“Eh, I’m used to it,” Dean says with a shrug. “It beats having to squeeze into the back of a car and sleep there. Or some crappy motel room. We used to jump around a lot before moving here, so…”

Dean’s voice trails off with a shrug. Benny nods in quiet understanding. He  _ is _ quiet — quiet and observant. And since the day Dean saved him from the bullies at school, the two had become acquaintances. And over time, they had actually become friends. He’d been the only friend Dean had save for —

He shivers, shoving the thought aside before it can manifest itself into more painful memories. Still, Dean likes Benny. He likes him a lot. And Dean is quietly grateful that Benny has stuck around as much as he has, especially as of late. Even Benny’s father seems to like him well enough when Dean stops by Benny’s house before having to trudge off to the garage. When the two get to Dean’s house, the two stop short in the doorway just as Dean pushes open the door, revealing a mess of papers on the floor. Benny whistles quietly, rubbing the back of his head as Dean curses under his breath.

“Sorry,” Dean grunts quickly, his face heating up all over again. “I forgot I left these here.”

“It’s fine. Let me help clean them up.”

Littered across the floor of Dean’s room are at least two dozen newspaper clippings and police reports he had been able to get his hands on from the station downtown. Each of them is something connected to Castiel — his disappearance. Police reports. Castiel’s father’s trial. Gabriel’s obituary. It had stirred a massive scandal in the small town where everybody knows everybody and had become a hot topic of discussion in the weeks following Gabriel’s death and Castiel’s disappearance. The rumors were the worst part; rumors that Castiel’s father sold Castiel to a human trafficking ring. Rumors that Castiel had died right along with his brother. Rumors that Castiel had something to do with his brother’s death.

The rumors get under Dean’s skin like a nagging, present itch. And like any itch, Dean couldn’t control his urge to lash out at it whenever it flared up. His math teacher had been chatting about it under her breath with the science teacher down the hall, whispering that she’d heard Castiel had hurt his brother somehow before he disappeared. Dean had turned on his heel and marched straight towards her, a red film striking harshly across his eyes. He didn’t know what he’d planned on doing - only that it had been Benny’s hand on his wrist that had stopped him from doing it. 

_ It’s not worth it, brother, _ Benny had said in that low voice of his. Dean stood deathly still; the teacher hadn’t noticed him. He had half the urge to punch Benny in the face for stopping him from --

From what? Physically assaulting a teacher? Dean had felt sick afterward. That’s not like him. Never had been like him.

_ Just walk away, _ Benny said to him quietly. And with tears in his eyes, Dean did. But it didn’t make him any less angry. All he wanted to do was shut out the noise. To make it all stop. To bring him back home --

But Dean knew and still knows that it would be impossible.

Dean gathers the papers in his hands, heaving them into the waste bin - he’d pull them out later. “No,” Dean says quickly in response to Benny’s question. “I...it’s fine. I just want to...just give me a minute.”

Benny nods quietly, stepping back to allow Dean space to gather them up and shove them under his bed. When it’s done, he clears his throat and hesitantly approaches Dean again, kneeling down beside him. He places a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“They’ll find him, Dean,” he says quietly. 

Dean shakes his head. “It’s been two months.”

Two months since Castiel disappeared. Two months since Castiel’s little brother was killed by an abusive father, the details of which fill Dean with impossible grief and rage. Two months since Castiel had almost kissed him, leaving Dean with an agonizing ache in his chest.

“Sometimes people disappear for years, Dean,” Benny reminds him. “And they’re still found.”

“And sometimes they aren’t.”

Benny kneels beside him, pulling off his backpack and dropping it to the floor. “How about we get started on that math homework,” Benny suggests. 

Dean shrugs. “It doesn't really matter. I’m gonna drop out of school soon anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need it and I suck at it,” Dean sighs. “I’m taking over my dad’s business. I’m gonna do car stuff for the rest of my life ‘cause that’s what I’m good at. I don’t need school for any of that. It’s stupid anyway. I can’t pay attention half the time and all the teachers think I’m just some loser.”

Benny swallows thickly. “I thought you hated this town. You were telling me just the other day that all you wanted was to get out. Dropping outta school ain’t the way to do that, is it?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. I want to get the hell out of here, sure. But that’s a dream. I gotta stay here and make sure Sam’s taken care of. I gotta make sure my dad’s business stays up and going. It’s all we’ve got...it’s the only reason Sammy has a roof over his head, now.”

Benny leans back on his hands, studying Dean with a guarded expression. “You sure do take a lot of responsibility for other people. You know that your happiness is important too, right?”

Benny’s words echo in Dean’s ears in the sound of Castiel’s voice, sending a fresh flood of pain through his veins. He looks away from Benny, too confused to respond. How could he? His happiness doesn’t matter because it  _ can’t _ matter. This is the way that things have to be. The way that things always have been. Benny doesn’t say anything else; he pulls his homework out of his backpack and places it on the floor.

“You don’t have to care about school or nothin’,” Benny says quietly. “But at least help me with this sheet.”

Dean smiles weakly and Benny smiles right back. For a moment, the two boys share that small smile before Dean leans over and takes a look at the homework. The distraction helps more than Dean thought it ever could, and soon, Dean and Benny are back to cracking jokes all over again. Dean even turns on one of his records for the first time in a month, and soon, the two are singing along to Led Zeppelin at the top of their lungs. Benny’s quiet nature disappears around music, and Dean loves him for it. He loves how  _ sturdy _ he is. How measured. In the past month where Dean feared he may drift away for good, Benny is a rock that Dean never knew he would need so  _ badly. _

But just as he’s enjoying this relief from the constant fog clouding his head, Benny’s voice cuts through the music.

“Hey. Dean. I gotta go.”

Startled, Dean stops singing. He coughs, a bit awkwardly, as he takes the needle off the record player with a quiet sigh. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed. He’d felt so  _ happy. _

“Right. Yeah. Uh...thanks, Benny. For coming over.”

Benny huffs a laugh. “What are you thanking me for? I had fun today.”

Dean smiles, suddenly feeling shy. “Yeah. I did, too.”

All at once, Dean feels antsy in his own skin. He glances at the newspapers under his bed and looks away when Benny puts a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“They’re gonna find him. Okay? Castiel went through a tragedy. He’s hurting. And with all that crap happening with his family...well, it’s no wonder he ran away. He knows you cared for him, Dean. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up next week if just to see you again.”

Dean feels his cheeks heat up. He has a feeling that Benny doesn’t actually know just how much Castiel  _ had _ cared for Dean — or how much Dean had cared for him. Not that he ever told anybody — not even Sam — about their moment in the hall. About their almost-kiss, and how it had sent Dean’s head into a cosmic whirlwind of confusion and longing for what never was. How he had wanted to kiss him, how he had spent each night regretting that he hadn’t. Regretting he hadn’t chased him into the house or called the police sooner.

He looks at Benny, biting his lower lip. He thinks about the kiss again. And all at once, he can see Castiel mapped across Benny’s face. He trusts Benny - he had trusted Castiel. He likes Benny well enough, doesn’t he? They have fun. Benny is a friend, a good friend, a friend who is good-looking and kind and a little rough around the edges. And that means --

Without thinking, he leans up and kisses Benny full on the mouth, freezing in place when Benny  _ doesn’t _ pull away as he had expected him to. He doesn’t press into it either and he doesn’t return it. But he doesn’t pull away. He closes his eyes, just as Dean does, and stays just like that until Dean finds it in him to draw back. Bewildered, Dean blinks his eyes open, rubbing the back of his head with a shaky hand. He felt possessed - like it hadn’t been him that had done that. It felt...like something. Good. Bad. Confusing. Not enough. Too much.

“Um, I’m — sorry,” Dean stammers. “I’m sorry. That was -- “

“It’s okay,” the other laughs. Benny rubs the back of his head as Dean looks at the floor.

“I gotta go, man. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Daring to glance up, Dean is bewildered when Benny is smiling.

“Yeah. Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Benny turns and leaves, leaving Dean alone with his spinning thoughts. 

* * *

The next few weeks of Dean's life exist in a whirlwind. When Dean walks to Benny’s house the next day, Dean is stunned when Benny kisses him right in the middle of "Stairway to Heaven" playing loud in Benny’s bedroom. 

_ "There's a feeling I get when I look to the west  
And my spirit is crying for leaving  
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees  
And the voices of those who stand looking  
That's you..." _

There’s no real build-up to the kiss, no rhyme or reason for it — he just kisses Dean. And Dean kisses him back like he’s desperately chasing something he doesn’t have. They kiss for what feels like an hour, at most, and they don’t talk. They’re just quiet, letting the music drown out their thoughts and worries and fears for the future and what is and isn’t to come. Dean swears he could taste Castiel on Benny’s lips that day in Benny’s bedroom. And so, Dean begins to kiss him every chance he gets. He and Benny rarely ever talk about it. But they do it all the same. Sometimes it’ll be in Benny’s room, sitting on the floor or on Benny’s bed by the sunny window. Sometimes it’ll be when they’re outside and Dean is helping Benny with a repair on his car. Sometimes, Dean’s eyes will glaze over as he thinks about Castiel as the weeks drag on by and there still isn’t a single sign of him anywhere. He’ll kiss Benny to forget about it, and Benny will kiss him back with an eagerness that Dean doesn’t realize he’s craving until that singular moment. He’s chasing a feeling he never got to have. An experience lost to him. A world of  _ almost _ and could-haves. Each and every time, Dean swears that he can taste Castiel there — can feel the way he felt. His cold hands, his stiff mouth, his steely blue eyes that appeared to memorize each of Dean’s movements no matter what he was doing. 

Sometimes, Dean hopes he can close his eyes and that everything in the past few months will have just been an insane dream. That when he opens them again, it will be Castiel’s mouth he feels pressed warmly against his own. That one day, it will be Castiel’s gentle sigh against Dean’s lips. But it isn’t. It’s Benny. And Dean likes Benny — but the feeling of chasing something Dean will never have feels so heavy some days that Dean wonders how he hasn’t drowned in the thickness of it all.

The way that Dean and Benny fall together isn’t very  _ careful. _ But they’re used to testing the danger in the wind. It’s no secret that should they be caught, their lives could be upended forever. It’s always when parents aren’t home that Dean gently grips Benny’s leather jacket in his hands and pulls him into a slow kiss that makes his head spin. When Sam is at a friend’s house, or when Benny’s father is away, they kiss in silence and in secret, never daring to do anything more than press their lips together and explore one another’s mouths. Searching for something. Anything. But never speaking about it.

As the month of May comes to a close, school begins to ramp up. Essays Dean barely manages to scratch down on paper. Assignments that he scarcely looks at. And at least three times a week, Dean hears John and Sam fighting more than Dean can bear to listen to. A particularly exhausting day at school leads Dean into kissing Benny the minute they walk through Dean’s bedroom door barely managing to get it to shut before Dean is pressing his mouth against his. But this time, Benny pulls away. All at once, Dean is dragged back to the bitter reality that Benny’s mouth has been but is a blissful distraction. A reason not to think. Dean opens his eyes, surprised and unable to form words right away until Benny rubs the back of his head, giving Dean a careful look that Dean aptly avoids.

“What are we doing, Dean?” he asks quietly. Dean shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts. He presses his mouth to Benny’s again, more urgently this time. He wants to taste the dryness on his lips, the faint smell of cigarette smoke on his jacket. They don’t talk about it because they’re not supposed to talk about it. They haven’t since they began doing this and Dean needs it to be that way. Benny grabs Dean’s shoulders, sending a shiver down Dean’s spine as he furiously presses deeper into the kiss -- much deeper than before. Benny makes a low, pained sound in his throat, but does nothing to push Dean away. Instead, they ungracefully stumble onto the bed with all the pained, awkward fumblings of inexperience and young eagerness that Dean had never gotten to explore before. And when Benny gently, hesitantly traces his tongue over Dean’s lower lip, a violent shiver racks his spine, causing Dean to blush. By now, Dean is half in Benny’s large lap, awkwardly trying to feel him like that again. 

He wants him to do that again.

“Dean -- “ Benny breathes. 

Dean shakes his head, feeling the tendrils of panic creep up his spine. “No.”

He doesn’t want to talk about this. Talking about it would mean that the deep, buried throes of self-hatred and doubt would only bubble up to the surface again. The very notion that it’s another boy’s mouth that Dean is chasing would sting him like a wasp in the summertime. Eager to lose himself, Dean impatiently presses his lips against Benny’s again, eager to feel his tongue on his lips like he had before. Benny does nothing to resist him; the gentle push and pull of their mouths and bodies as Dean wraps his arms around Benny’s neck is addicting. It’s a whirlwind of feeling  _ good. _ Of feeling like a summer storm. The rush of adrenaline that Dean could chase for the rest of his life.

It’s so good that Dean is deaf and blind to everything outside  _ Benny _ and, admittedly, the fantasy that this could have been Castiel kissing Dean like this. The feeling of  _ his _ mouth, instead. The hesitant, then eager, way that Dean pushes Benny’s jacket off of his shoulders could be Castiel’s trench coat tumbling to the wooden floor. Castiel’s mouth could be this warm, this good. Dean could be scrambling, awkwardly and hurriedly, to fit his body up against Castiel’s body instead of Benny’s.

But Benny is good. Benny is almost good enough. Benny makes Dean’s head spin, makes him so dizzy that Dean doesn’t hear a single thing at all. Not the footsteps climbing the stairs. Not the bedroom door being pushed open.

“Dean,” his father’s voice snaps as he steps through the door. “You need to get ready. I need you to fill in for me at —“

The sharp, quick silence that follows his father’s voice is louder than his words. Dean almost falls off the bed as he shoves himself off of Benny’s lap, not quick enough. Dean scrambles back, bunching up the unmade sheets on the bed as his back hits the windowpane. Frozen in place, he stares into his father’s wide, disbelieving eyes. He doesn’t dare look at Benny. Somewhere, Dean is falling; spinning, spiraling, tumbling down into a vast hole in the ground where he would live the rest of his life in shame. 

“ _ Dad _ ,“ he murmurs. Benny awkwardly gropes for his jacket and shrugs it on, eyes darting between Dean and his father as he reaches for his shoes.

“Tell your friend to go home,” John says quietly.

Dean opens his mouth to speak but Benny quickly shakes his head, cutting him off. His face is bright, beet red, and Dean swears he can see tears gather at the corner of the boy’s eyes. Benny gives Dean a nod before he hastily turns away and hurries out the door, slamming it behind him. Thick silence falls between the two as they listen to Benny’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs. Dean can’t even look at his father -- he feels frozen, rooted in place, unable to process anything that had just happened.

“I wish I knew what to say to you, Dean. Other than I should have seen this coming.”

Dean lifts his head to meet his father’s eyes. He feels deep, burning anger curling in his stomach, bubbling below the surface. Anger he’s never felt towards his father before. Anger he’d never  _ dream _ of showing his father before.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean rasps. His throat is sandpaper. He hates how weak he sounds, how weak he  _ feels. _ That word again, unspoken, but still agonizingly present.

“I mean that kid you used to hang around,” John snaps. “The queer one.”

_ “Don’t talk about him like that!” _

It’s the first time in Dean’s life that he’s ever dared to raise his voice at John Winchester. John stares at him, stunned, before taking a heavy step closer to Dean. Dean flinches, but he doesn’t back away. He holds his father’s gaze instead, trying with all his might not to cry.

“Don’t you  _ raise your voice at me, _ ” he growls. “I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ has gotten into you, but it’s disgusting and downright shameful. It’d be in your best interest to fix your behavior before I send you out of the house for good.”

Dean looks at his father in disbelief. “Dad -- I didn’t --”

“ _ Don’t.  _ I don’t want to hear it. You’re choosing a lifestyle that I don’t want in this house. If you used your damn head for a  _ second _ you’d know that if you were to get caught by anyone other than me, it could reflect badly on us. On our  _ business _ that keeps this roof over our heads _. _ You didn’t think about that, did you?”

Dean is silent. He wants to disappear forever. He wants to hide in his bed and never, ever come out. 

“Answer me!”

“N-no, sir,” Dean stammers. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of that at all. But why should it matter…?

“Now, I’m willing to get you off with a warning,” John continues, looking at Dean in disgust. “Some parents ain’t so nice to their kids. If I so much as  _ suspect  _ that you’re behaving like that around another boy again, you’re  _ out _ of here. I won’t have it in my house or have it threatening the reputation of our livelihood. Understand?”

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it again. He clenches his jaw, trying to ground himself. He feels like he’s falling with nothing to hold on to. No lifeline to drag him back to the surface.

“Why can’t I just have my own life, Dad?” he whispers. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t making it public. I wasn’t talking about it. I just want my own life. That’s -- that’s all I want. I...hate it here. I really, really hate it here. I feel so stuck, I --”

Desperation clings to Dean’s skin as his voice trails off in a helpless whimper. He’s looking up at his father with pleading eyes,  _ begging _ him to save him from slipping beneath the surface. He wants his father to understand something he barely understands himself, something he could never put into words. Something he’s sure that  _ Castiel _ could put into words so much better than Dean ever could. He feels tears slip down his cheeks and he hastily wipes them away, hating himself for crying in front of his father. Hating himself for being so unbearably  _ weak. _

“You’d better learn to be grateful for what you’ve got, boy,” John growls.

Dean shakes his head furiously. “I am!” he whispers. “I am, I swear I am, it’s just --”

“I don’t want to hear it!” John interrupts him. “Not until you get yourself together, Dean. You heard what I said: if I catch you sneaking around with another boy like that again, or if I even so much as  _ think _ that you’re gonna speak to me with disrespect after today, you’re  _ out. _ You live under my house with my goddamn rules. You’re gonna work at the garage and you’re not gonna be some queer living under my roof. I don’t want to see you hanging around that kid ever again. Understand?”

Dean looks up at him miserably. Angry, desperate tears fall from his eyes as he shakes his head and furiously wipes them away on his sleeve.

“You’re just a jerk,” Dean whispers around a sob, knowing what’s coming for daring to speak to his father the way that he is. “I didn’t do anything wrong. You just hate that I want something different for myself. That I wanna -- I wanna go out and  _ see _ the world and-and just do what I want without hurting anybody. I don’t want to be  _ you _ . And you...you can’t stand that!”

John doesn’t say anything. He stares at Dean, his expression unreadable. Heavy eyes cast over his son, before a burst of pain erupts across the side of Dean’s head. Stars dance in the corner of his vision before he realizes John had hit him hard enough for him to stumble down onto his knees on the floor. Without another word, John turns away and walks out the door, slamming it behind him as he thuds down the stairs. Dean seethes with anger and shame, but his body feels lighter, somehow. He’s angry -- angry at himself, mostly, that he was so careless. That he let himself be so weak. But for the first time in a long time, he understands that what he did wrong by his father was not something he’d done wrong by himself.

Of course, the feeling wouldn’t last. Dean would go to bed that night hating that he liked kissing Benny so much. Hating that he wished he could have felt that with Castiel. But he understands that it’s hurting nobody -- that his own shame is merely something his father and so much of the world instills in himself. Another way to chain him, just as this town chains him to the earth, suffocating the life from his lungs. He desperately,  _ desperately _ wants to be free. To be free of suffocation. To let himself love the way he and Benny had, even if Dean knows it’s the love of another that he’s chasing in his dreams. The want -- the need -- is impossible to ignore. Dean knows this. And whether or not he believes he’s actually good enough to have something more for himself than his father’s small-town job, Dean realizes that it doesn’t matter anymore.

He wants --  _ needs _ \-- to be free. He needs to find Castiel and bring him home. Not home to this town, but home someplace else. Someplace they could call home together.

Dean sits up in his bed that night, weeping silently into his pillow. He’s angry, hurt, and afraid of the world and what it could bring. Terrified of losing himself under the pressure to be  _ good. _ He doesn’t look up when Sam quietly enters the room; normally, he’d be terrified of letting Sam see him cry. But now, he simply doesn’t care. He cries into his pillow and listens as the bed creaks under the weight of a second person sitting beside him. Sam wraps his arms around his brother’s shoulders without asking what’s wrong and hugs him tightly to his chest. He doesn’t speak and he doesn’t push. He simply lets his older brother do what he never could do before.

* * *

When the weekend rolls around, Dean leaves the house alone. His father hasn’t looked at him once since their confrontation and Dean hadn’t said a single word to him since. He makes dinner for Sam and himself and goes to bed. Sam senses the tension, too -- but he doesn’t say anything. Their father had been getting on Sam’s case about his refusal to prioritize helping the family with work over his own schoolwork, and Dean didn’t want to listen to it anymore. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walks outside. The sun is out, though it does little to make the cold air any less biting against Dean’s exposed skin. He doesn’t know where he’s walking to. Only that he needs some air. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Michael smoking a cigarette in the driveway. The eldest Novak brother raises his hand slightly in greeting, but Dean ignores him.

“Hey. Winchester.”

Dean feels a twist in his gut, but keeps walking, refusing to look at him or even acknowledge that he heard him.

“Hey!” A hand on his shoulder makes Dean whirl around. He shoves Michael’s hand off of him, scowling at him through bared teeth.

“What do you want?!” he demands. “Just leave me alone.”

In the months since Castiel’s disappearance and Gabriel’s death, Michael had lost a significant amount of weight. His cheeks are hollow, his complexion pasty and almost translucent in the sunlight. Disgusted, Dean takes a step back, wanting no part of the man who only ever added to Castiel’s pain. He remembers their very first meeting - Michael shoving Castiel into a wall. Hurting him.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Michael says quietly.

Dean grits his teeth. “What the hell do you care?”

Michael sighs. He taps his cigarette between his fingers, staying silent for a long moment before deciding to speak again. 

“I care because you were my brother’s only friend.”

“Well I can’t  _ be _ his friend now, can I?” Dean snarls. “Because  _ his _ life was such a living shithole, he had to run away from it all. I already talked to the police and told them everything I know. He _ might _ be someplace in Seattle. That’s all he ever told me.”

Michael looks at the ground. “Dean, I know we got off on the wrong foot before. But I tried to help him. I tried to help him...and Gabriel -- “

“ _ Bullshit _ ,” Dean snaps. “I saw you the day me and Castiel met. You shoved him into a fucking wall.”

Michael glares at Dean. “I’m not perfect. That was wrong of me.”

“Clearly.”

Michael sighs impatiently. “Dean. Our mother died six years ago giving birth to Gabriel. Losing her...it hurt. It hurt like a wound that never healed. Our father was always a flawed man, even before, but grief did something to all of us that day, and now -- “

“I. Don’t.  _ Care, _ ” Dean growls. He takes a step towards Michael, an ugly glare stretching across his face. Suddenly intimidated, Michael takes a step back.

“I lost my mom, too!” Dean snaps. “But you don’t see me walking around beating my brother, do you?!  _ No _ . I take  _ care _ of him because our own damn father won't. Because I’m not a lowlife piece of  _ shit. _ Look, I’m sorry about your mom, and I’m sorry about the loss of your little brother. Even scum like you don’t deserve that. But it isn’t an excuse to treat other people like your own freaking punching bag.”

Michael looks away. Tears well up in his eyes that don’t fall. 

“I’m trying, Dean. I stayed home to protect Castiel and Gabriel. I could have left. But I didn’t. Clearly... I failed.”

Dean gives him a long, steady look. There’s so much he could say to him. But Dean knows it would only be a waste of time. 

“Yeah,” Dean says slowly. “ _ Clearly. _ ”

Dean turns away, not willing to hear another word. He stalks down the sidewalk, leaving Michael alone without another word. Dean is angry; but like confronting his father, he feels lighter than before. Like he could hate himself a little bit less. He feels like he’s finally doing the right thing, even if he’s doing it far, far too late.

He’s gonna get Sam out of here, Dean decides as he storms back into the house. He’s going to get Sam out of here before Dean turns into someone like Michael. Someone desperate and ugly and broken beyond repair, losing himself to the pain until there’s nothing recognizable in him left. Together, Dean knows, they’re going to leave this place, if only for a little while. The idea of leaving  _ forever _ is a bleak, terrifying concept, too vast and distant for Dean to face with anything but fear. But if Dean can tell himself that he and Sam can leave, can take a break, can break free from the walls of this town for just a little while, maybe Dean can fool himself into believing they could leave here for good. 

And maybe, just maybe, he could find Castiel.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. Hoping it's a good one, everyone.

_"You are my sweetest downfall  
_   
_I loved you first."  
  
_

* * *

**Chapter 9**   
**May - September 1977**

\--

**June 1977**

_“Dean, it’s hot as hell in here.”_

_Dean raises an eyebrow as he stares ahead at the long stretch of road before them, hands loose on the steering wheel. Ten miles out of Kansas, the open road stretches far out to the horizon, an endless stretch of possibilities unfolding before them. Dean gives Sam a wry smile before he rolls down the passenger window all the way, blasting Sam with a torrent of wind as the car speeds down the highway. Sam gasps and pulls a face when the gale whips his floppy hair into his eyes and into his mouth. He sputters and curses, giving his brother a glare as he laughs and laughs from the driver’s seat._

_“Dean, roll up the window!” he snaps. But Dean only continues to laugh over the roar of the wind. He turns on the radio dial all the way, blasting Jimmi Hendrix’s Freedom as loud as he can make it go._

“Freedom,

That's what I want now

Freedom, that's what I need now

Freedom to live

Freedom, so I can give…”

_Dean pointedly ignores Sam’s pleas as a bright grin stretches across his face. He sings along, banging his head and thumping his hands on the wheel. Despite himself, Sam rolls his eyes, suppressing a poorly-concealed smile. Soon enough, with the window rolled down, Sam joins his brother as they sing along together, terribly out-of-tune and forgetting nearly half the words. But both of them know that it doesn’t really matter how bad it sounds or how loud they are. The wind is on their backs, the sunlight of late spring drifting through the window. They belt out the words like the words were made for them._

“Freedom, so I can live

Freedom, so I can give

Freedom, yeah

Freedom, that's what I need…”

* * *

**May 1977**

“Whattya think about getting out of here, Sam?” Dean asks him suddenly. At night, Dean and Sam lay in their respective beds right after shutting off the light. He hears Sam rustle beneath the covers before turning to face his brother from across the room.

“Getting out of here? What do you mean? We can’t leave.”

Dean chews on his lower lip. “I don’t mean forever. Just...just for a little while. Like a road trip, just you and me. We could see Vegas, man. _Vegas_. I’ve never been to Vegas.”

For a moment, Sam doesn’t respond.

“What’s so great about Vegas?”

“It’s -- it’s not just about that,” Dean sighs. “I just...I don’t know. Don’t you feel like you need a break? We could get the hell outta here for a little bit...maybe just a few weeks. A month over the summer before you go back to school.”

“That could be...cool,” Sam says. “What do you think Dad would say about it?”

“Don’t worry about Dad,” Dean says quickly. “I just wanna do this. I think it could be fun. You and me and the western skyline. We take the car and we just...drive. We see everything there is to see. Then we turn around and come back home.”

Once again, Sam is quiet. Dean pulls his face into a scowl when he doesn’t respond.

“C’mon, man. Don’t you want a break, too? Don’t you miss all the places we used to see when we were out on the road?”

Sam sighs. “I do. But...Dean, is this about finding Castiel? Is that why you want to go?”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. He feels his stomach tighten at the name of his friend. Three months Castiel’s been gone. Two weeks since the police stopped looking, saying that if he wants to come home, he will. Three months of Dean crying himself to sleep almost every night.

“It’s not just about that,” Dean protests weakly. “I want to get out of here with you, man. I hate it here. I just need to get away.”

“Dean, I don’t think Castiel wants to be found. And even if you did find him, what’s the point of bringing him back home? He hated it here, didn’t he?”

Dean only shakes his head. “Sam...even if we can’t find him, I still want to do this. With you. But I...I just want to see that he’s...okay. That he’s happy. That he-he didn’t get kidnapped or-or get himself _dead._ ” Dean can feel his eyes burn with tears. He’s grateful that it’s dark - that Sam can’t see him fighting not to cry.

“Then let’s go,” Sam says suddenly. Dean breathes a sigh of relief that he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“But I’m not talking to Dad about it, Dean. He’d just lose his shit on me like he always does.”

“Don’t worry about Dad,” Dean says quietly. “I’ll handle him.”

He rolls over in bed and closes his eyes without another word.

* * *

**July 1977**

_The road is their home as much as any roof over a house has ever been. When they run out of money, Dean’s credit card scams he so aptly learned from his father (perhaps the only good lesson his father ever taught him) gives them the motel rooms they need. They see everything -- the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. The Black Hills of South Dakota. The sleepy, misty towns of southern Montanna. They meet travelers like them; young boys and girls out on the road, testing their newfound wings of freedom as they chase the hazy, midwestern skyline from behind the dusty windshields of Chevvies and mustangs and older buggies that have chugged along on their weary legs for miles upon miles. At Sam’s insistence, they drive down to Arizona to see the state’s greatest wonder that, admittedly, Dean has also always wanted to see for himself._

_The Grand Canyon is so much more vast than Dean ever would have realized. A cloud of dust erupts around them as Dean pulls the car to a stop. He climbs out of the driver’s seat with a whistle as Sam joins him on the edge of the massive plateau overlooking the great expanse of rock and wildlife carved deep into the crust of the earth._

_He feels as though he’s staring across the expanse of a different planet, something so vast and wide that his human eyes could not possibly begin to understand what they are beholding. The earthy reds and browns stretch on and on for miles containing a vast stretch of secrets that Dean could never hope to understand. In all their travels as children, they’d never stopped here with their father. Dean is overwhelmed with the vastness of it all, but he doesn’t mind._

_“This is...awesome,” Sam breathes beside him. Dean nods in dumb silence. Together, the two look over what they’re able to see of the canyon in breathless awe._

_“It’s huge.”_

_He wonders what it would be like to bring Castiel here. Castiel would probably sit and want to watch the sunrise. He’d watch the herd of bison in the distance and compose a melody in his head for hours about the colors and vast network of life contained within the canyon. He’d come back home and play the melody for Dean and Dean would want to hear it again and again and again._

_“We should go,” Dean tells him. “I’ve got that shift to work back in Phoenix. A month on the job and we’ll have enough to keep going to California.”_

_“And see Vegas?” Sam asks hopefully, not forgetting his brother’s promise from before they left. Dean rolls his eyes._

_“Vegas is in Nevada, dummy. I thought you wanted to stop in San Francisco instead?”_

_With a shrug, Sam watches a lizard scuttle across the rocks and disappear into the grass._

_“I’m cool with going anywhere. I want to see_ everything _.”_

_Watching the sun cast a hazy shadow over the red earth, Dean silently agrees._

* * *

**May 1977**

“You’re not leaving,” his father says shortly.

Dean isn’t surprised. Just crestfallen. He inhales, taking a steady breath as he watches his father fold his arms across his chest. They’d barely spoken since their confrontation after John walked in on Dean and Benny. Dean had been terrified to ask for anything since then, let alone something he knows his father wouldn’t approve of. And now, in their small kitchen, Dean can barely look his father in the eye.

“Dad, it’s just for a little while - “

“Who’s going to work the shop?” John interrupts. “You know I can’t do it on my own, Dean.”

Dean looks down at the floor. “Dad, I...you told me you could afford to hire someone else. I work almost for free, I have a little bit of money and I wanted to take Sam - “

“You heard what I said,” John snaps. “You’re not going. And honestly? I don’t know if I trust you on your own anymore. Not after I caught you with that kid.“  
  
Dean snaps his head up. He looks at his father in disbelief. Of all times, he hadn’t expected _that_ to be brought up now. “What...so I’m just supposed to be some kid forever?” he asks quietly. “You don’t trust me, so I just stay here until you decide that you can?”

“You tell me, Dean,” John says lowly. “But you’re right. I don’t trust you anymore. Not since you started hanging around with that Castiel kid. Not since you started getting a smart mouth with me. You and Sam are staying right here where I can keep an eye on you both. End of story.”

Dean draws in a deep breath. With a dark look, his father turns his back to Dean and moves to walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“So what if we do leave?” Dean asks. He fights against the tremble in his voice, relieved when his voice sounds strong and confident and not nearly as terrified as he feels. Dean draws in a slow breath, daring his father to turn back around to face him again.

“What if we do leave?” Dean asks again, softer this time. John stops, still not looking at him. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak at all.

“If you two decide to walk out that door, I sure as hell hope that you never try and come back.”

The words hang heavy in the air between them and Dean doesn’t say a single word. He grips the table tightly as John walks away and disappears upstairs.

* * *

**August 1977**

_There are nights where Dean dreams about Castiel. He dreams of his music, those out-of-tune piano drifts being the only thing he misses about that small, wretched town. Sometimes, he thinks he can still hear those notes played with an expert ear of precision, songs that were written for Dean’s ears and nobody else. But the brothers are content to drive. No destination, no place to settle -- they live in the back of their Chevrolet. And they’re happy; bright smiles stretch across their faces, and they sleep with content as the nights pass and the cities fly on by._

_In the month that follows, Dean finds work at a larger car repair shop. In Portland, Oregon, Sam hits the Multnomah Library, reading every book on mythology and local lore that his young mind can drum up. Some nights, when the weather is fine, the brothers fall asleep on park benches only to be chased out. Once or twice, Dean nearly gets arrested sneaking into a bar or a liquor store with fake IDs._

_Portland, Oregon is bustling and far, far more beautiful than Sam would have ever expected. He could get lost here; lost in the crowd. Lost in the scene. They’d hit up at least four different music venues in just the last week alone, featuring guitar players from the local towns, strumming away in crowded bars to an audience of drunken teenagers and young adults looking for a night away from home. Piano players, making music on keys that makes Dean cheer, even if it’s not the same as hearing his old friend’s music. Not even close. Some of them check IDs. Some of them accept the fakes Dean had made for both himself and for Sam. Some of them can be easily tipped off._

_But none of them have what Dean is looking for._

_On the last night they planned to spend in the city, Sam is sitting at a solitary, black table, eyeing his brother at the bar from across the dimly-lit stage. He could laugh at the sight of Dean, clearly underage, trying to talk up the club owner from one of the leathery bar stools. Dean’s always looked older than his seventeen years, but now, standing beside this older woman at least twice his age, Sam is sure Dean looks to be about ten years old._

_Normally, Dean would be flirting her up in a heartbeat, no matter her age. And she’d likely wrinkle her nose in disgust at the sight of a child trying to hit on her and walk away with nothing more but a laugh and a wave of her carefully-manicured hand. But today, Dean isn’t trying to bust a move on someone just as out of his league as Janis Joplin herself. He’s looking for information._

_“You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be throwing a kid like you out on the street by the scruff of the neck,” the woman snaps. Dean raises his hands in defense. Around them, people are beginning to shuffle in as the first performances of the night get ready to begin. Guitars moved on stage, light fixtures set up. This is Sam’s favorite part; watching it all begin. The newness of it all._

_“Hey, I’m not drinking, am I?” Dean says defensively. “I’m -- I’m just asking for a list. This is a nightclub, isn’t it? Surely you have a list of people who have performed here in the last few months.”_

_From behind the bar, the woman places her hands on her hips impatiently._

_“Yeah, I have a list. Why do you need it so badly?”_

_Dean sighs. “I just want to see a name. I want to see if someone named Castiel Novak would have played here. That’s all.”_

_“If it’ll get you the hell out of my hair, kid…” Dean grins in promise as she disappears into a back room. Within a minute, she returns with a list in-hand and places it down onto the bar._

_“Novak, right? Yeah...you just missed him. Talented kid...very talented. Could play the piano better than anybody I’ve ever seen. Word has it he’s been hopping around the nightclub scene, traveling the west coast. Kinda scruffy-looking, real thin and small. Got more tips than anyone who played here in the past month, though. I imagine he’s drowning in cash wherever he plays.”_

_She drags a nail down the list until it lands on Castiel’s name. Castiel Novak. The name rings like a melody in Dean’s head. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and it’s all he can do not to throw his arms around the woman’s neck and hug her as tightly as he can._

_“You missed him by four days,” she tells him. “But I hear he’s headed for Seattle.”_

_Dean nods quickly. His smile is weak, breathless, and more hopeful than he’s felt in a long, long time._

_“Right. Yeah. Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you, ma’am.”_

* * *

**May 1977**

“We leave next week,” Dean tells Sam shortly, dropping his backpack onto the bedroom floor. He sinks back onto his bed, quickly unlacing his boots with quick motions of his hands. “Soon as school’s out - we’re gone. How’s that sound?”

Sam looks up from his homework unexpectedly. With a blink of surprise, his face splits into a wide grin. Forgetting his work, Sam shoves his notebook aside on his bed.

“Seriously?! Dad’s gonna let us go on the trip?”

Dean bites his lower lip. He catches the way Sam’s expression falls when he doesn’t answer right away. It’s enough to make his heart sink in his chest. 

“Not exactly. He, um...he actually wasn’t cool with us going on the trip. At all.”

Sam frowns. “Then...what are you -- “

“He said that if we go, he doesn’t want us to come back.”

Sam looks down, his expression dazed. “Then why would you want us to go?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He chews on his lower lip instead, studying his little brother carefully from across the room.

“Did dad hit you again this week?” he asks quietly.

“Dean --”

“Did he?”

Sam looks up. The faded bruise across his jaw is answer enough. Dean’s eyebrows crumple with concern before he has to look away. Before, the sight of an injury like that would make him feel numb. Lost. Afraid. But now, it only makes him angry. Angry and willing to do whatever it takes to keep his little brother safe.

“That’s what I thought,” Dean breathes, gritting his teeth in anger. “Sam...we don’t need Dad. All he’s ever done...is hurt us. I know he...he’s tried. And I ain’t saying that he...he’s done _all_ wrong. But he’s done enough. I can take care of us, Sam. I’ve picked up his tricks over the years. I know how to live on the road...and man, I miss it, sometimes. I really do. But I don’t want us being here anymore. I don’t want _you_ here anymore. We could go...and we could get out.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. Not at first. He’s quiet as Dean tries to read his expression, knowing that this would take Sam time to process it all. 

“What about school?” Sam asks quietly. “And my friends?”

“I’ll make sure you finish school. I know that’s important to you. You’ll finish. And we can come back...but not while we’re still dependent on Dad.”

“And we’ll find Castiel?” 

Dean nods. “We will. I plan on it.”

That seems to relax Sam if only a little bit. He gives his brother a small smile. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore. Not when he trusts his brother more than he’s ever trusted anybody else in his life.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I trust you.”

Dean smiles. That’s all that he needed to hear. 

They wait. Dean tells John what they plan to do when his father is sitting in front of the TV, beer in one hand. He doesn’t look at Dean, and for a long moment, doesn’t respond. The heaviness lingers in the air, and perhaps a small, small part of Dean hopes that his father doesn’t confirm what he had said just a week ago. But a larger part of him knows that he will. And that Dean would have to be okay with that.

“I said what I said, Dean,” John says at last, still refusing to look at his son. “If you two walk out that door, don’t expect me to welcome you back.”

“Okay,” Dean says. He walks upstairs. And that’s the last thing Dean says to his father. Another week passes, and finally, school ends for Sam. They ready themselves to leave.

When their father isn’t home, the Winchester brothers pack as much as they can fit into the trunk. Dean tells Sam he needs to make a stop before they leave for good. He pulls the car up in front of Benny’s house and quickly climbs out, hurrying up to the front porch to ring the doorbell with an antsy jitter in his fingers. They hadn’t spent any time together outside of school since the day Dean’s father caught them on the bed, and until now, Dean had mostly been avoiding Benny whenever he got the chance.

“Hey, Dean,” Benny says with a nod when he finally opens the door. The two boys smile at one another. Benny’s eyes are tinged with surprise, clearly not expecting Dean to show himself at his doorstep like this so suddenly.

“Hey, man.”

The two laugh nervously. Tension hangs heavy in the air between them; they haven’t spoken of the incident since that day. And Dean had been trying to avoid him ever since. But Benny doesn’t seem any angrier with Dean than Dean had been with himself. 

“I wanted to, um...let you know that I’m leaving. With Sam. Maybe for...for good. We’re taking a road trip and we aren’t sure when we’re gonna be back...or if we’re gonna be back at all.”

Benny gives Dean a small, sad smile. “Heh. Gettin’ out of here after all, eh? Looks like you’re gonna make it after all. I’m proud of you, brother.” He gives Dean an affectionate punch on the arm, a gesture that makes Dean grin with embarrassment. 

“Guess that makes me the weary maiden you kiss and run from, huh?” Benny teases.

Dean blushes, but that seems to be exactly what Benny wants. He laughs wholeheartedly as Dean rolls his eyes, tempted to kick him in the knee. But he doesn’t. He settles for returning a punch to Benny’s shoulder, instead. 

“About that…” Dean mumbles. He rubs the back of his head hesitantly, unsure of where to start.

“Proposing marriage?” Benny suggests. Dean punches him again, which only sends Benny -- and Dean -- into a roar of laughter. He’s grateful for Benny - grateful he can diffuse the tension like this. That he isn’t mad. 

“You shut up!” Dean laughs, trying to sound less serious than he feels. “But...really,” Dean begins, “All that...it was...it was fun. But I don’t think I can really keep doing it again.”

Benny nods quietly. Outside, the two can hear the buzz of the summer crickets in the grass. Dean swats away a few gnats, wiping a small bead of sweat from the side of his head as he folds his arms.

“My dad chewed me out for that,” Dean admits. “And...for the first time in my life, I snapped right back at him. Felt pretty good, to be honest.”

Benny raises his eyebrows. “I’m glad. You weren’t doing nothing wrong.”

“No. I wasn’t,” Dean agrees. Even admitting that out loud takes more strength than Dean thought that he had. “Still hurt, though. My old man’s been hitting on Sam...hates me for, well…” He gestures lamely to Benny.

“You don’t need him, Dean,” Benny says seriously. “No one really gets it...but at the end of the day, you and I? We weren’t hurting anyone. And I doubt your brother wasn’t hurtin’ no one either. None of it matters. Call it gross and shit...I don’t know. People throw around all kinds of dumb stuff about who other people kiss or fuck or whatever. And it hurts. It always hurts. But...at the end of the day...hell, it doesn’t matter. It ain’t gross. Or bad. It’s...it’s none of that.”

Dean smiles faintly. Benny’s tanned face seems soft in the sunlight. 

“You’re right. It isn’t...but all that...that’s not why I can’t...we can’t…”

Benny raises a hand. “Dean. I get it. I’m not gonna lie to you...I wanted more. I like you. I really, really like you. But you’re so in love with Castiel, I kept wondering when you and him were gonna run off and elope or something. I never really thought you and me were ever gonna work out as long as you were still thinking about him.”

Dean flushes all over again. He blinks, trying to find the words. He always knew that...didn’t he? That he loved Castiel. He simply never strung those words together before. He’d do anything for Castiel. He’d looked and looked and looked...followed the stories. He’d stood up to his brother. He’d wanted to run away with him, to be by his side…

Dean had wanted that kiss that he never had. But to be _in love…_

It feels so scary.

“Was it that obvious…?” Dean asks faintly. Benny laughs gently. 

“Yep.”

“Right.”

Benny shifts his weight where he stands. “Are you hoping to find him out there?”

Dean presses his lips together, feeling the weight of the question hang heavy in the air between them. God, Benny is so easy to talk to. So, so easy. He likes him -- likes him a lot. He always had. He could be happy with Benny -- or, at least, as happy as two boys could be together in a town like this. In a _world_ like this. Which wouldn’t be happiness at all. Not with his father breathing down his throat, threatening to kick him out for so much as spending time with another boy.

But Benny is right. Dean loves Castiel like the rain loves the breathing earth; inevitably. A love without stopping to ask why or how it came about. One, unable to exist without the other. And since the day Castiel ran, Dean hadn’t stopped thinking about ways to bring him home. To bring home back to _him,_ if Dean had to. And Dean would.

“I don’t know if we will,” Dean murmurs, feeling dazed. “But I’m not gonna give up on him, Benny. I can’t.”

Benny nods slowly. He regards Dean for a moment, glancing past him to watch a couple walk up the road. 

“I know. Find him and bring him home, Dean. You deserve to be happy. Don’t you forget that.”

“Only if you do the same for yourself.”

The two smile. Benny offers his hand and Dean takes it in a firm handshake. A connection. A silent promise. He nearly stumbles when Benny pulls him in for a tight hug. For a long, long moment, the two of them stay like that, clinging to one another in a silent promise. A silent _thank you_ for all that had happened between them. When Benny pulls away, he seems content. Happy that the two are leaving off on a good note when things have felt anything _but_ good in the past couple of months.

“I’ll be seeing you, then?” he asks finally. “Or...you’ll at least give me a call?”

Dean pats him on the back. “I will,” he promises him. 

“That’s all I wanna hear. You be safe out there. Bye, Dean.”

“See ya, Benny.”

When Dean turns to walk home, there’s a wide smile on his face and a light spring in his step.

Dean climbs back into the car and drives with Sam beside him, a knowing smile stretched across the younger Winchester’s face. They drive and drive until the small, stuffy down trails behind them in the brilliant sun, a speck of dancing light. Just another forgotten sunbeam, a place they once called home...a place that never could have been home. Not really. Dean doesn’t know what he’s destined for, and neither does Sam. But what they both understand is that the small town with all its bells and whistles isn’t home. Home might be in the back of a car. It might be someplace on the other side of the world, waiting with outstretched arms and an offering of belonging neither brother could find in the place they’re leaving behind. But _home_ isn’t in the tiny town disappearing into the rearview mirror behind them. Home is wherever they can make their own, surrounded by those who love them and accept them for who they are. 

* * *

**September 1977**

_As the summer months stretch into early fall, the brothers travel to every place they can find. They reach the Pacific, spending weeks in towns where Sam works behind the counter of a small shop while Dean works under the hood of a car. They make just enough money to last them another few months before they’re off again -- driving, driving, driving until there’s nothing left to see. But there’s always more. Always more skyline, always more music, always more people. By now, the brothers should be back to school. And they will -- they will. But not this year. Not now. Not when there’s still more of the world to see._

_Every now and again, Dean calls home; he talks to Benny, updates him on his life, what he and Sam have seen. Benny is always there to cheer him on, if not a little haphazardly when he learns Dean won’t be returning to school right away. Benny is seeing a boy. A nice boy. He hasn’t told his parents about the boy -- not yet. But they’re taking it slow. They might road trip for a little while if things get serious as Benny so aptly puts it. Dean is happy for him, and Benny tells him to call again. Dean calls Jodi, too. And Jodi weeps tears of joy when she learns that Dean is on the look for Castiel -- and that he’s happy. That he’s free and safe and experiencing life the way he needs to. She’s doing well these days; she’s seeing a nice man who takes her out to dinner and laughs at her terrible jokes. It makes Dean happy to hear._

Happy _. On the road, the brothers may not know where their next meal is going to come from. They may have had a few run-ins with the police. But they’re happy. And for the first time in a long time, Dean feels free. They’ve carved their initials into the inside handle of the car door, a way to remember that this is their home._

_Dean’s only wish is that Castiel could experience this with them, too. Each night as they drift from Oregon to Washington, Dean makes a tally of the places they’ve looked, knowing full-well he could have missed him, but he looks. He checks the names. He asks the locals. He searches the records of the local bars and performance spots for any sign or name that Castiel could be here. At best, he’ll sometimes catch a name or a rumor; Castiel Novak, the genius boy who could play any song from memory, the boy who could turn music into liquid gold in anybody’s ears. And each night, Dean has to remind himself that he may never find him. That he may disappear into the wind, that the trail could run cold. And that he has to be okay with that and enjoy his life while he still can._

_Traveling up through Oregon and into Washington, the boys decide to spend a week in Seattle. The rainy weather keeps them in their car for most of the day -- but at the first sign of sun, Dean leaps from the backseat, grinning up as the city lights illuminate the night around them. The weather is getting chilly again, but Dean doesn’t care -- it’s perfect to him. They shrug on their jackets and walk amidst the lights, remembering fondly when they lived here long ago. Before moving to a quieter town, they spent time in Seattle with their mother; she had been a music lover, and the local music scene of the outskirts of the city had been the one thing she had missed when they’d moved their family out to Missouri when Dean was only five years old. It’s the same place where Castiel said he’d like to play his music._

_Thursday night. They decide to spend the night listening to live music at the venue. Their fake IDs come in handy passing the steely doorman, and he accepts them without question. The unearthly, neon glow of purple and white swims in Dean’s vision, soothing him somehow even as the roar of the guitar wailing a cover of Aerosmith’s “Dream On” swims in Dean’s ears. The brothers take their seats near the back as the song ends and a chattering of applause quickly follows. Dean whistles as the band walks off stage, their leather boots teased hair filling their presence with freedom and an energy Dean hasn’t felt in so long._

_Around them, the bar stretches around the perimeter of the room. Young and old customers alike lounge on the black leather barstools, while a large cluster of younger college students around the rustic, wooden tables seated near the middle of the room. Black leather chairs, where the brothers sit, are filled with people talking excitedly amongst one another; conversations from people Dean would never truly meet, nor fully understand. A woman, a waitress practicing politics, trying to make it big in the city, her voice stretching over the waves of voices. A businessman with a joint in his hand, regarding her. Actors and clerks and bankers and college students. Some look too young to be at a bar so late at night, others who are far too old. Washed up movie stars looking to escape their hometowns. People, like Sam and Dean, who are, perhaps, searching for others._

_The audience shifts in their seats, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Most are standing by now, and Dean and Sam have managed to score seats in the front row. A piano is rolled out onto the stage and a figure takes his place on the stool. The lights shine, and a smaller figure ducks onto the stage and bends over the keys to conceal his face. Something about the figure is familiar to Dean, but he’s too lost in the swelling music that quickly fills the room to really pay attention. The notes are simple, and the piano player has no sheet music on the tray. The way he moves his fingers is expert, like a seasoned player of many years, though he can’t be any older than Dean himself. He lays back, the roar of the audience falling into a silent murmur as the music shifts and swells; a medley of different tunes, all ones Dean has heard before; Elvis. Supertramp. Aerosmith. Records Dean has tucked away safely in the back of his trunk. Records he used to play with Castiel._

_The medley of music continues, and the order is strikingly familiar to Dean. Elvis’ “And I Love You So.” The Beatles’ “A Little Help From My Friends.” “Goodbye Stranger” by Supertramp. It molds and swells together, forging a familiar string of events together like pearls on a string; the first time Dean had ever met Castiel. The first time he heard him play at night. The song Castiel loved from Dean’s records. Love songs and songs about friendship and songs from the very heart of Dean. The music that strung them together -- and the music that would ring in Dean’s hearts when they were, at last, thrust apart. He blinks rapidly, unable to believe what he’s hearing. He’s hearing the whole of Castiel; his music, his life. His heartbeat. The shattering blue eyes that blaze in a fury of glory and curiosity and light. When the medley ends, a new one takes its place - an original composition. A familiar one. The same one Castiel played all those months ago for Dean in Castiel’s bedroom, now larger and grander and played on a fully-working piano. It reaches a dizzying crescendo, the melody roaring and falling, arching and rising, dipping and swelling. Dean is nearly out of his seat as his heart races in his chest._

_Castiel, Castiel, Castiel._

_The world falls away when the music ends. The piano player stands and takes a bow. Sitting close to the stage, Dean claps as the player looks down directly at Dean. Around the player’s neck, a music pendant glitters in the low light. Very slowly, he bows his head to meet Dean’s eyes._

_The world is a fury of blue, and sometimes, Dean wonders how his own heart has always kept tune for so long. How he hasn’t lost himself in some wary disarray. Maybe it’s his brother. Maybe it’s the fact that he finally stood up to his father after all. Maybe it’s the fact that Castiel taught him to love, taught him to breathe. Taught him to see beauty when there was none. To have strength when he felt like he had so little. Taught him to love Benny in the way that he had, fleeting as it was. Taught him to love himself._

_But now, those eyes ensure Dean that he’d never be lost again. Under a black mop of hair sitting atop a small head and a rigid stance, those eyes reveal music that makes Dean’s heart swell in his ribcage. Even Sam seems to stiffen beside him as he recognizes who he’s looking at. At that moment, Dean is sure that he has heard all the music the world has to offer and that he’s ready to hear it all again. To write_ new _music. To sing it loud enough for the entire world to hear._

_It’s those eyes that say 'Hello, Dean' that finally lift him from his seat. And Dean is stumbling, charging, flying towards the stage as the other hurries down the steps. Around them, a rupture of applause rips through the crowd. Dozens and dozens of faces are cheering and whistling as the two embrace in a tight hug and Dean can no longer tell where his body ends and Castiel’s begins. He doesn’t care._

_Dean pulls back with a wide smile. Castiel, his Castiel, his best friend, his person, the boy who’s always made him feel whole, is smiling at him like a blind man who is seeing color for the first time. As the applause heightens, Dean gently takes Castiel’s shoulders in his hands and pulls him close to press his lips against his own. Behind him, Sam is beaming, cheering, and clapping with the rest of the crowd. There is no shame, no hurt, no judging eyes or rough hands. It’s just him and Dean feels free._

_“I love you,” Dean whispers against his mouth. He’s never meant anything as much as he means those three, simple words. Then, loud enough for anyone standing close to hear, Dean says it again: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”_

_Dean is sure his words were lost in the roar, in the applause at the declaration of love. But Castiel’s smile assures him that he heard. He kisses Dean again, and he’s crying into the kiss and doesn’t care, not at all, not for a single moment._

“I love you, too."  
  
They hug. Castiel’s face is clear of bruises, hurt, or any pain. And Dean is laughing, crying, apologizing, thinking of Gabriel, and asking Castiel if he’s okay. Sam is there, hugging Castiel, too, happy to see him, telling him how sorry he is that he lost his little brother. That grief is there, is present and entirely too close, but it’s a grief that will find its peace. Grief that understands that this sadness is only a reminder that love will remain, that horrible things take place in the world, and that they must stand strong against it. With peace in his eyes, Castiel hugs them both, happy as the day is long and full of more love and life than he’s ever felt. Knowing there is so much time to experience more. And when he’s done hugging them, he pulls Dean in for another kiss and Dean is so dizzy with love, he feels like he could fly.

_And here, standing miles and miles away from the small town Dean once thought would be his tomb, he knows that like the rain finds the earth after its inevitable race towards the ground that he’s finally found home._

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The extended melody that Castiel wrote himself was inspired by [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSg3tBzAVFk)
> 
> This was a story that has lived in my head for about seven years. As I said in the notes of the very first chapter, this was a very different story with a very different ship that I never finished. I'm so glad to be able to finish it like this and that it resonated with at least a few people.
> 
> I may give this piece an epilogue, and I might not - I'm not sure yet. But I can promise I'll be writing more Destiel in the months to come. 
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone in my Discord chat who provided encouraging words and who looked over the final chapter to make sure the formatting made sense. I also wanted to thank my friend Avery who was a big source of encouragement back when I was working on this story in high school. And of course, I want to thank everyone who left comments and kudos. It's appreciated more than I can say. 
> 
> \- Sam


End file.
